~ Save the Dragons, ride a Targaryen ~

There was only one place he thought he would find some clarity. “Tell the ship’s captain we will not be returning to King’s Landing right away,” he told Ser Adrian at the door before he marched towards the queen’s guest quarters on the other side of the hallway. 

One last trunk was being carried out of the rooms when Ser Robert Darklyn, who had guarded you on this voyage, knocked at the open door and called inside. “The king is here to see you, your grace.”

You did not rise from where you were seated at the vanity, sitting still for your maid to pin the black veil at the back of your head. While Lord Corlys had not been your kin, the Council had advised for more strict, traditional mourning clothes to suit the young king’s values, which had surprised you. Ormund had often mentioned how Rhaenyra and her brood had been unrefined and crude, but instead you had come to find Jacaerys was very much attached to traditional Westerosi and Valyrian customs.

He did not seem to mind that you did not stand to greet him. Instead you met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “If you do not mind a day’s delay, there is a place I would like to show you,” he announced.

As such, the ship instead sailed north instead of west further in the bay, and brought you to a place you had only ever read about. Dragonstone was a mighty fortress of which even the most descriptive of Maester had failed to capture the scale in their journals. 

Jacaerys seemed even more mournful as you threaded through the dark gray sands before stepping onto the pathway that led up to the castle. You watched as his eyes followed the coastline then up the cliffs and the peak of the volcano, and you could guess the years of memories that must have been playing in his mind. 

Once inside he waited no time to lead you through the vaulted hallways, until youreached a large hall where a formidable painted table. Multiple candles had been left on it, the hard wax having dripped down its sides and hardened there, frozen halfway between the tabletop and the ground. 

“As word was sent so late, the master of the household did not have adequate time to prepare,” Ser Adrian explained, but Jacaerys waved him off.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied, coming to stand in front of the table, brushing the palm of his hand along its edge. “If you would leave us now.”

Ser Adrian and Ser Robert exchanged a long glance he did not see—no doubt wary of a repeated event as the one they had overheard the night prior, but complied, nodding to the guards to vacate the hall as well.

You stood under the high ceiling in a white ray of light coming from one of the windows, through the intricate tracery. You noticed runes carved into the walls, some of them gilded, others looking too rough for you to distinguish any shape.

“Why did you bring me here?” you finally asked—by now you had come to understand nothing the king said or did was in vain, and you wondered if this was meant as some sort of lesson after your loss of temper the night prior.

“I’ve come to understand from your words last night that you do feel as though you are a Targaryen,” he remarked out loud, and that this was the topic he was choosing to come back on was taking you aback.

“My cousin Ormund disliked anything to do with Targaryens, and did all in his power to raise me as a Hightower. I will never be one of you,” you warned.

Jacaerys rounded the table and came to stand at its opposite head, looking at you across the painted realm. “I am aware,” he replied, then met your gaze firmly. “Why did you agree to marry me?”

You stepped closer to where the coast of Dorne was painted, remembering your mother’s words from the day you had told her of the proposal you had gotten—when the time comes, he will bare his back, and we will have our revenge, you may still light the way for us—you said nothing of any of it. 

At that time you had still feared you might have been carrying the doomed heir to your dead brother, and only now were you realizing how much of that fear had motivated your decision once your blood had come, and how much your mother’s words had convinced you. 

“All my life, all I ever wanted was to serve my family,” you replied. “To serve the realm.”

Jacaerys nodded. “Which is no more than I wanted to do.”

“Aegon—” you started, the name echoing under the ceiling like a ghost unable to escape a room, and you hoped he would remain there and leave you in peace. “Aegon was cruel and mad in the end, but he was my brother and he was the rightful ruler. I was glad to serve him.”

Your voice broke at your confession, and despite its terrible implications, Jacaerys didn’t correct you.

“I will never try to convince you to think otherwise. My mother was my ruler,” Jace replied in turn, firmly standing where he had often stood while advising his mother. Now another queen was at the other end of the table, one that had just uttered words of treason.

“How can we rebuild a realm, when we cannot even agree on who was the rightful ruler?” you asked with a sorrowful laugh. “Have we made a terrible mistake, agreeing to this marriage?”

Jacaerys contemplated your words for a moment, nothing for an answer—he already had one—but for signs that perhaps, you wanted this as much as him. “We do it for those who will come after us,” he said, speaking out loud the vow he had kept to himself until now. “My reign is not for mine own gain or mine own glory. It is for those who will reign after me.”

You were struck then, by the shadow that crossed over his face, a burden you had seen on Aegon’s twisted scars—the weight of the crown and the utter terror that came with it. 

Jacaerys carried on, oblivious to your realization. “I do not care for power,” he declared. “I only wish to take on my responsibility and do my duty, to leave the realm more stable and united than I found it.”

The words did not need to be spoken aloud, you both knew the one condition that hovered over them, the burden that was yours in the early hours of a reign that had crumbling foundations—an heir that shared both your bloods.  

As you took in his words, you thought that your mother had been right—what he had just displayed, this earnestness, this goodness in him, would be his weakness and perhaps even his downfall. You only had to decide whether you wished to stand by his side and join in his endeavor, solidifying it, or wait for the slow erosion to take him under.

For the sake of your own survival, you buried your resentment and your anger, and chose to force yourself  to believe—strangely enough, Jacaerys did not go back on his word and indeed allowed you into the inner workings of power. 

Days later on a cloudy morning he strode into the Council Room with you on his heels, and you followed with the same assurance as though he was your momentum. 

“The queen will sit at council from now on,” he promptly announced, guiding you to sit at his left, forcing Lord Thaddeus Rowan to instead take the seat reserved for Alyn Velaryon, at the time empty.

Directly across from her, Jeyne Arryn seemed oddly satisfied, but no such thing could be said of the three other lords. “That is very well,” she said before anyone could verbally object. “The queen can assist me as I continue to reach out to the great houses.”

“Is there trouble still?” Jacaerys asked, and Lord Roland cleared his throat slightly, taking a large sip of his cup of wine. You frowned, unsure of the implications.

“Indeed,” Jeyne continued. “It seems Ser Tyland had all of Aegon’s gold taken to Lannisport right before the city was taken back by Queen Rhaenyra, the first time. Lady Joanna has still not given any indication that she intends to send it back.”

“This gold belongs to the crown,” Jacaerys protested.

“Some would argue it belongs to his heirs,” Unwin Peake said, giving you a pointed look, and several names and faces flashed through behind your eyes in quick succession.

“It belongs to Jaehaera,” you interjected, quickly noticing this name had not been the one on Peake’s mind, judging from his unpleasant frown.

“Indeed, as there no longer lives any direct male heir of his. The law could also argue it ought to go back to the Hightowers, to Aegon’s cousin Lord Lyonel,” Lady Jeyne said carefully, and the pinched expression Peake was wearing bled onto the faces of all the others, with one exception. 

Only Jeyne seemed to retain a smooth, neutral countenance at all times. 

Lord Roland cleared his throat again, this time more decidedly. “My daughter might be persuaded to give the majority of it back, with one particular offer,” he said, his eyes flitting between you and Jacaerys.

“The majority?” the king asked.

“The rest could perhaps be kept as a dowry,” he continued, and the cold chill of dread spread through your body before your mind could fully comprehend. “My grandson Loreon and the princess Jaehaera are of the same age.”

“No,” your voice sliced through the air like the crack of a whip. You could not bring yourself to look around the table, and instead you kept your eyes on Lady Jeyne’s carefully poised hands across from you  to keep your composure. “She has endured enough. She is my niece and as such under my protection, you shall not ship her away to barter trunks of gold.”

Jacaerys put an end to the discussion before it could escalate, but the matter remained on everyone’s faces as the remaining widows were discussed—among them the Tyrells but other lower houses as well, and in front of them a new map was slowly been drawn, with women at the head of many an estate with sons in their childhood, some of them still in cradles. 

Successions might be challenged and the stability of the different kingdoms could be threatened, which was more than Jacaerys could allow in such a perilous time. 

Tempers still ran high when he dismissed the Council, Lady Jeyne the first to rush out, headed back to the Hand’s Tower and her never-ending correspondence. As Jacaerys crossed the doors, it was to nearly run into Lord Roland, who seemed dismayed.

“Might I help you, my lord?” he asked, feeling the beginning of an ache behind his brows.

“I must say, your grace, I do not appreciate the queen’s abrupt refusal of my proposal,” he protested, visibly frustrated. Jacaerys had never had any grievances against him, and he regretted that it would have to start on this day. “Furthermore, the other men of the Council fear that you are allowing the enemy into the chamber of power.” 

The young king’s temper snapped. “It was safe enough to allow the enemy in my bed, wasn’t it?” he countered, and such an uncharacteristically crude response seemed to stun the old man for a moment. “If she is fit to bear my heirs then she is fit to serve me as council.”

The remark made him nauseous but he showed none of it, holding his ground instead. “Or do you think a woman unable to make informed rulings?”

With that question, he pushed past the man and made his way towards his quarters, instantly regretting his bout of temper when he rounded the corner only to find you standing there, looking mildly appalled.

“I am sorry that you had to hear that,” he said, continuing towards the grand staircase, feeling the fire of his sudden anger turn to bitter ash. 

You followed him without acknowledging any of it—Ser Adrian and Ser Robert fell into step behind the two of you, along with Ser Marston—while he had been part of Aegon’s retinue, he had recently been allowed to be added to the rotation who guarded you as a sign of unity by Jacaerys. 

“I do not mean to bring a petition to you, but I would rather no lord in this chamber ever attempt to use my niece as a bartering piece,” you exclaimed.

Jacaerys glanced at you over his shoulder and sighed. “While I understand how uncomfortable it is, marriages are how alliances are made and fortified, as you well know,” he said, not unkindly, but harsher than he should have been.

The ache between his brows had grown to a throbbing, and he found his patience was reaching his limit, as it did when he felt powerless to reign in his own kingdom. The matters of coin and loyalty were grave, and he sometimes wondered if gold had more power than his own name and claim to the throne.

“She is a child,” you argued, following him to his quarters. 

With a pained sigh, Jacaerys removed the circlet he wore at court on days when he was not hosting and set it on a cushion. “I will speak to the Council and ensure that she is kept out of any negotiations in the near future,” he conceded, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Will the gold be returned to her, then?” you pushed. “Or will it be kept as leverage until she is given to wed to the highest bidder as soon as she bleeds?”

Jacaerys was taken aback by your sudden outburst and interest in the fate of your niece. “I made a vow that I would keep her safe,” he reminded her. 

You sighed frustratedly. “She will never be safe,” you argued. “She is a girl and as such doesn’t stand to inherit anything. How she will marry is how she will survive,” you concluded bitterly, tears rising in your  eyes, and Jacaerys could feel the hot fire of anger burning behind his breastbone—or perhaps something else.

“My mother sought to change this wretched system!” he cried out, his voice breaking with the force of his next words, making you startle. “And she died for it!” 

Turning his back on you, he took purchase on the mantle of the fireplace, attempting to swallow the sobs that threatened to tear him apart. “Enough,” he begged behind gritted teeth. “Are you not tired of this?”

You understood then, more than you could say, and in that instant you loathed yourself more than you loathed him. Sitting at Council and watching your niece behind traded had awakened a primal fear in you, the same that had accompanied you all the way from Oldtown when you had been summoned to wed Aegon, and that hadn’t left you all the days you had been married to him.

You now found yourself  in the same position your mother had been then—nearly forced to sacrifice a girl’s innocence for the sake of strength and stability for the crown, and you wondered how a mother could ever stand to feed the structure that was keeping her and her girls trapped. 

This is how we serve the realm, she had said. By submitting. By serving men. By bearing heirs.

Giving words to any of this meant forsaking your brothers, and thus you kept it under lock deep inside your chest, where the embers of something more tender than hatred had started to take root. “I am sorry,” you said, and you found that you meant it.

Jacaerys felt his shoulders drop—he hid his face into the crook of his elbow, hoping that the pressure would alleviate the low pounding in his head. To his surprise, he felt a hand settle on his shoulder, timid and tentative, but before you could retract it, he had covered it with his own. 

“So am I,” he sighed.

Taking a settling breath, you dropped your head forward to rest on his back, and for a moment yourself  and Jacaerys vanished—there was only the crown then, the king and the queen, holding onto each other for the sake of the realm. 

“I will argue in favor of your niece,” he promised. “I have heard whispers of my life, calling the legitimacy of my claim into question. Now that I am king, I will not have anyone question my ability to rule. For better or worse, the crown has landed on my head and I intend to be worthy of it.”

It seemed such a farce from the Gods, that a boy likely born out of wedlock would make a worthier king than your own brother, a trueborn son. It echoed to something deep inside you, a fear you had always carried about your own identity, and that Ormund had been smart enough to exploit. 

“There were rumors when I was born as well,” you said instead of reassurance, praying you would not regret such a confession. “Upon my birth I looked nothing like my father. And then my egg did not hatch,” you continued. 

“We were born a mere few weeks apart and shared a nurse, I was told,” Jacaerys added, which was a gracious answer. “All my life I’ve had to bear the weight of rumor and doubt, and now I sit the throne.”

“Mayhaps we have more in common than we might admit,” you tried.

At that Jacaerys lowered his arm from the mantle of the hearth and turned to face you once more—your hand remained on his shoulder, trapped by his, and there was nowhere to escape when his eyes bore into hers, searching for something you were afraid he would find. All the hatred your cousin had planted in your chest, that your mother had fed and watered was somehow silent, a muted ached deep inside of you. 

“Tomorrow we shall face the Council together and settle Jaehaera’s inheritance once and for all,” he said. “They married us to unite the realm, so we shall speak in one voice, united. We may have our grievances in private, but in public we should be one.”

Slowly, Jacaerys leaned into you, for the first time allowing his exhaustion to find a crutch in his own queen, choosing to trust rather than to hate. You made a soft sound when he dipped his head forward, his eyes fluttering shut, and rested his temple against yours.  

Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @zaldritzosrose. Comments are always appreciated and keep me motivated to write this series!

Series taglist ✢ @chaotichereticcavern @galactict3a @qtmoonies @multyfangirl @obsidian-gold1239

@thegirlwithoutaname87 @harryssattelitestomper @rtyuy1346 @kplatzman @neenieweenie

@cinnamoonfairy @g0oshtt @orchidsinthesun @darling-darling3 @pookynknowntranger

@cloudyzip @softlittlevigil @at-a-rax-ia @noneedtosearch @darkrion

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@glooblyglob @starmy4life @kentucky-criedfricken @gracesalvatore @magnol1aaa3 @ellej

Baelor emerged from the shower with the empty cardboard box pinched in his hand, the shower filter's packaging crushed flat. "All done," he said, as you took the box from him, your fingertips brushing the warmth of his palm.

He wore a black polo that stretched across his shoulders, and tailored black slacks that hung from his hips perfectly. Only Baelor could manage this, you thought; performing manual labor while appearing as though he'd stepped from a runway.

"Thank you for coming over," you said, setting the box aside. "This didn't have to be done today."

He crossed his arms, and your breath caught. The hours with his new trainer had carved definition into him that you appreciated, still mapping with your eyes when you thought he wouldn't notice. His biceps pressed against his sleeves, the fabric straining just enough to make your mouth dry.

"No problem."

His tongue swept across his lower lip. He stepped closer, letting his gaze openly travel down your body with clear appreciation, taking in the linen dress that clung to your hips, the way it ended midthigh and left so much leg bare.

"Is there—" he paused, letting his eyes drag back up to meet yours, "—anything else I can do for you before I go?"

You both knew he was really asking.

"I am considering getting a new TV for the bedroom," the words coming out innocently even as heat gathered beneath your skin. "Would you be able to take a look? See if I could mount something bigger with what's there?"

"Yeah."

A smug grin crossed his handsome features as he followed you from the bathroom into the attached bedroom. His hands found your hips, guiding you with gentle pressure that made you acutely aware of every inch of space between your bodies. You stopped before the wall where your current TV rested, and then his chest pressed against your back. Then you felt him, hardening against you, straining through layers of fabric to reach you.

"Baelor—"

He turned you in his arms and swallowed your words with his mouth. His kiss tasted of patience finally abandoned, of restraint cracking open. You melted against him, your hands finding the breadth of his shoulders, the strength you'd watched him build week after week now yours to grip and pull closer. He made a sound against your lips and then his hands were beneath your thighs, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, carrying you the few steps to the bed.

"Good girl," he breathed, his hips settling against your ass before he drew back and slammed forward again. The bedframe knocked against the wall, a rhythmic percussion. "Look at you taking this cock. Taking all of it like you were made for it."

His hands found your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with possessive strength, and you moaned into the mattress, pushing back to meet his next thrust. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, wet and filthy, punctuated by your broken gasps.

One hand lifted, came down swift and sharp on your right ass cheek.

"Ah!" You yelped, the sting radiating outward, and he laughed, that dark, pleased sound that vibrated through his chest and into your spine where his body covered yours.

"Can feel how much you like that," you could hear the smirk in his voice, could picture his eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction. "So tight. You always like it when I use a little more force."

You did. You had always responded to this, the edge of dominance, the certainty that he could and would take what he wanted from your willing body.

"So good," you slurred, your tongue thick in your mouth, your hips working backward to meet his increasingly brutal rhythm. "Harder—"

"Fuck," he groaned, his head tipping back, the shift in his stance as he gathered himself. Then he was leaning forward, his chest pressing against your back, his beard scraping the sensitive skin of your shoulder as his mouth found your ear. "There you go, sweetheart. Let me make you feel good. Remind you what you've been missing."

"Fuck me—" The plea escaped before you could catch it, before you could maintain any pretense of composure. You were reduced to this, begging, spread open, his cock pounding into you relentlessly, hitting that spot inside that made your thighs tremble and your vision spark with white light.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, his hand sliding between your legs with unerring accuracy. His fingers found your clit and began to rub in tight, merciless circles.

You jerked forward, the sensation too intense, too much, but his other arm caught you, held you in place.

"Don't run now," he chuckled, the sound dark and intimate against your ear. His beard tickled your neck, his breath hot and damp. "Not after you lured me over for this. Calling me to fix things all the time—" A particularly hard thrust cut off your moan, drove the air from your lungs. "When what you really want is me to stuff this pussy."

The words should have stung. Instead, you felt only the truth of them burning through you, the admission that you had been manufacturing reasons for him to come, to be in your space, to look at you with those eyes that saw too much.

"God, Baelor—" Your voice cracked, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of it, the fullness, the friction, his fingers working you. You were close, so close, your body tightening around him in pulses you couldn't control.

"It's okay," he whispered, his voice softening. "You can come now. I've got you. Let go, sweet girl. Let me feel you."

The permission broke something open in you. Your orgasm crashed through, wave after wave of pleasure radiating from your core outward until your fingers cramped from gripping the sheets, until your voice gave out from crying his name, until you were nothing but sensation and surrender, milking his cock with contractions that made him groan and curse and lose his rhythm.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK—"

He stilled against you, his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as he emptied himself inside you. You felt it, the pulse of his release, the heat flooding your already-slick cunt, the way his body went rigid and then slack, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in harsh pants that stirred your hair.

You lay sprawled and limp, your face still pressed to the mattress, his weight a comforting blanket over your back, cock still buried deep.

Then he was withdrawing, slowly, carefully, and you felt the immediate loss.

Gentle hands turned you, helped you collapse onto your side, and then his mouth was pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your jaw.

"Going to hop in the shower," he said, his voice still rough. "You want to join? Round two?"

You laughed, or tried to, it came out as a breathless huff. "No. I can't really stand right now."

He laughed too, and gave your ass a light smack that made you twitch and smile despite yourself. "Fair enough. Don't move. I'll be quick."

You didn't move. You couldn't have if you'd wanted to. You lay there listening to the shower run, your body gloriously used, every muscle loose and warm.

When he emerged, towel wrapped low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest hair and the gray-threaded beard, you had managed to sit up against the headboard, your hair a wild tangle that would require serious attention.

"That shower feels the same," he observed, reaching for his clothes where they'd been discarded in haste.

"It's a filter," you replied. "It's supposed to be better for your hair and skin over time."

He paused in pulling on his shirt, filing that information away. "Are you saying I should shower here regularly?"

The heat that flooded your face. You opened your mouth, closed it, felt the corner of your lip catch between your teeth as you considered your answer and found none that wouldn't reveal too much.

He laughed.

"Enough of that." You turned away. "It's time for business."

You forced yourself to stand, to go to the bathroom and begin the work of restoring order to your hair. The mirror showed you flushed and mussed, your eyes too bright, lips swollen from his kisses. You looked exactly like a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked.

"Valarr—" you began.

"Yes, I have interviews tomorrow with tutors for him," Baelor interrupted, smoothing his slacks. "I'll let them know he's a legacy at two schools, but we still want at least a 1500."

You nodded. "Okay. And Matarys started driver's ed. He needs some hours with a parent, and I refuse to get in a car with him ever again."

Baelor chuckled. "It's not funny," you insisted, pouting at your reflection. "He nearly killed us both!"

"Going what? Ten miles per hour?" His eyes were crinkled with amusement, the amber one catching light differently than its blue partner, both focused on you with such obvious affection.

"He ran a stop sign!"

Baelor's expression softened as he watched you. "No worries," he said, reaching to clasp his watch back on. "I'll get him on the road this weekend."

Your hair was perfect once more, falling in smooth waves past your shoulders. You reached for your makeup drawer, doing a light retouch of concealer and lip gloss.

"Thank you, Daddy," your eyes meeting his in the mirror's reflection.

His eyes narrowed, sharpening instantly, as you gave him your filthiest grin in return, one that promised everything you couldn't say in words.

He shook his head, a sharp motion as if to clear it, and stood. "Do you need anything?"

"Could you get me some water?"

"Whatever you want." The phrase fell easily from his lips, natural as breathing.

You stood alone in front of the mirror, studying your own reflection as if it might provide answers. Baelor was the perfect husband. Kind, a good father, a good man, a great provider, and he fucked you through the mattress with devastating skill. He was attentive. Available emotionally and physically in a manner that felt almost performative, except you knew him too well. This was real. This man who prioritized you and the boys above work despite being the head of the restructuring group at one of the largest law firms in the city. He who would drop anything to come to you when you needed him.

He was perfect.

If only he had been this man before you left him.