i. My Greatest Enemy Is You
Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader
Warnings: Canon-typical violence, blood, gore (someone's throat is literally cut open), canon-typical misogyny (mild-ish), threats of rape, mentions of character deaths and character deaths alike, spoilers for show and book, inconsistent tense cause yeah
Series synopsis: From your earliest memory, you had wished for nothing else than to become a knight. As an attempt to guide you away from those ambitions, your father sent you to King’s Landing to serve in the King’s court. That, however, proved fruitless for your hopes only swelled more, and you had befriended and caught the attention of the crowned princess’s son. After the death of your lord-father, leaving your eldest brother as the head of your house, you find a few years later that he is not so eager to uphold previous oaths made as he takes the Greens’ side in the succession war between Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother. Torn between familial loyalty, honor, and love, you are left distraught.
Prologue <- 1 -> 2 Series Masterlist
At ten-and-five, only two years after gaining your father’s blessing to continue training toward knighthood, you had entered your first battle against the ironborn from the Iron Islands.
The war was nasty and brutal, but it was disputed quite quickly within the year after your house’s navy was deployed.
However, many blows were made. You had lost two of your brothers along with your father.
Your eldest brother Rylan now sat as Lord of Clagmere Castle. Your third brother, turned second eldest, Arden was his advisor. Leander, a year and a half your senior, had gone North to the Wall to join the Night’s Watch.
Other than Arden, Leander had been one of the few of your brothers with whom you had a good relationship. Most nights, you wondered what Leander was doing and how he fared.
You were placed as Rylan’s sworn shield, a position you were most happy to assume.
However, you did not come out of the battle unscathed: a scar stretching from the curve of your chin to the corner of your lip on the left side.
You had been outnumbered by three ironborn men nearly thrice your size. You had managed to slit one’s throat and slash your blade behind the crook of one’s knee, but that had only made that one angrier.
Eventually, you grew tired, your adrenaline high beginning to blow over, that extra boost ceasing. As soon as the unscathed one saw the opportunity, he rushed you, slamming you into the ground by your throat, the action causing your helmet to come off.
You remembered their words most, lewd and disgusting, even in your hazy state.
“I’ll stab you and fuck the wound, bitch. You are a pretty thing to look at,” The one pinning you had said as he hovered a blade over your sternum right after swiping it across your jaw and over the corner of your lips.
You gasped and sputtered for air, but you were given no relief. Blotches of black began to paint your vision and iron touched your tongue. You closed your eyes when he lifted the knife, accepting your fate.
Just before the knife plunged into your neck, he was thrown off of you.
You desperately gulped air, turning over to lean on your forearms. When your breath began to even, your body dropped completely into the mud.
“Y/n, you better get up, girl! Our men are dying as you lie there!” A voice—undeniably your father’s—shouted out in a strained manner.
You released a great huff of air before slowly, and with great difficulty, rising to your feet.
You turned your head to meet his gaze, but were met with a different sight. Horror ripped through your body. Quickly, that horror was replaced by a tidal wave of rage so intense that everything had become a blur to you.
You could not recall what happened next, but you did not try for it was too much.
The man whose kneepit you slashed had slammed a dagger into your father’s throat and jerked it to the side, opening his throat and causing blood to spray every which way.
After that, you had only the words that people fed to you after everything was over. Apparently, you had gone on a frenzied rampage, slashing and striking anyone—anyone—who dared to get in your way.
After that, reinforcements had arrived. Your allies had left a wide berth around you, allowing you to scream and cry your lungs out. Eventually, you passed out from exhaustion, finally falling into a calm state where you could be collected and taken back to Clagmere Castle.
When you woke, you would learn that your second and fourth eldest brothers Cassius and Dorian had also lost their lives in the battle by Arden, who devoted himself to your health as you healed.
The funeral had been gloomy as three bodies lay on three weighted pyres that were waiting to be drawn out to sea. You had flanked Rylan’s right while Arden took his left.
The three of you agreed to keep it small, not wanting many to be there. Rylan had made an exception, though:
Princess Rhaenyra and her children.
That day marked the first time since you were ten that you saw the royal family. However, you did not look at them once throughout the ceremony. Even when the princess walked up to directly give her condolences your eyes stayed glued to the ocean.
But you had made an exception later that night when you had strayed from the feast that was prepared in your deceased family members’ names.
Jacaerys had found you, just as he always did, and offered you his shoulder. He offered no words of consolation, and he did not push. He simply existed in the same space as you.
“Thank you, my prince,” You had whispered before pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, and then leaning your head on his shoulder.
It was an intimate moment, more so than it should have been, but neither of you cared as you basked in each other’s comfort and presence knowing you would not see each other for a while after.
Now, at ten-and-seven you wore your battle scars with pride, and your name and titles even more so.
“Viper of the Coast” is what people began to call you after the battle. A suitable title for someone as quick and ready to strike as you. That day had been a turning point for your prowess. You vowed never to allow yourself to be reduced or bent so easily again.
“The King is truly dead?” A voice asked, becoming louder as you approached your brother’s solar.
You stopped. It was Lord Humfrey Bracken. You had not been made aware of his arrival. But it was not his presence that caused you to cease all movement, but the words he spoke.
You knew King Viserys was not in good health. Your thoughts began to stray to the crowned Princess, to her own heir.
Now it was time for her to become queen. You believed that she would make a fair enough ruler.
You picked up your stride toward the door and knocked, your brother calling you in.
“Ah, sister. Come, come, please do give us your report.” His fingers tipped toward you, head nodding in your direction.
“The wagons are moving slowly along the river, and the men are growing tired. The horses even more so. Ser Donn says the path isn't… clear yet.”
You paused for a second, a question at the tip of your tongue. The wagons were much larger than the typical supply ones. And Ser Donn had been rather short with you.
Your brother sighed irritably, his fingers coming to rest on his temple. You took the moment to examine who all was in attendance in your brother’s solar.
Lord Bracken sat to the right of your brother, his hands clasped and eyes flitting between you and your brother.
Beside him sat Lord Tristan Vance, and across from him sat Manyfred Mooten, not Lord Walys Mooten. And beside him sat Lord Larys Strong.
A rather strange council in your eyes, but you did not judge your brother’s company. Arden stood at the window, his body rigid.
“Speak, sister,” Rylan demanded, his stony gaze meeting your skeptical one.
“Is it grain the wagons are carrying? It is good to get supplies in before winter is upon us, my Lord,” You spoke, carefully watching Rylan, one hand resting on the hilt of your sword, the other idle by your side.
“It is supplies, a heap of it to keep our stores full. We must keep the cargo from getting destroyed or ravaged,” He confirmed with a firm nod, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Well then, let our people not go hungry this winter,” You nodded in turn, still skeptical. “What are my further orders?”
Rylan leaned forward, his arms coming to rest on the long table. “Tell me, sister: have you heard anything from the capital?”
You already knew the answer he sought. “Whispers. The King is dead, may he lie in peace.”
Arden turned his head, his jaw along with the tension straining it visible to you.
“Yes, may he lie in peace,” Rylan said standing. “You’ve a good head on your shoulders, right Y/n?”
“Aye, brother,” You nodded your head slowly trying to gauge the intention of his question.
He did not get the chance to speak up, but Arden’s voice cut through the air like ice, his tone accusatory.
“Stop dancing around the matter; tell our sister whose banners you are planning to fly, you blasted fool!”
Rylan spun around to meet your brother, a great fury burning in his eyes. “You forget your place, Arden. I am your lord. I could have you stripped of your position and beheaded, brother.”
You did not need them to say much more, it was obvious what your lord-brother had done. You had heard the rumors simmer for years now, but you did not expect the seeds to sprout.
Your brother acknowledged Aegon the Elder as king rather than Princess Rhaenyra who had been named heir so many years ago, which was in those years ago that your father made his oath to protect her honor and her claim to the Iron Throne.
And now your brother was damning those oaths.
“Our father swore an oath by the gods, his family, and his house,” You began, your voice low despite the scene unfolding before you. “You mean to dishonor it.”
Rylan stared at you, the fury in his eyes turning to cold calculation.
“Our father swore those oaths. Now, he is dead. I am the head of our house now. Whatever oath he pledged to that whore with a bastard and her died with him,” The fury had chizzled away to reveal a cold, icy look.
A look he only gave to you.
“Rhaenyra Targaryen along with her bastard brood will tear the Realm apart. Father was a fool for sending you off to her,” You wanted to snap back at him, sink your fangs into his skin, and release your venom.
You looked over at Arden. His eyes, so much like your own, stared back.
“This is a mistake,” You began, your shoulders slumping and your hand at your sword dropping in defeat. “If this leads to a war, blood will stain the Realm. But…”
Your voice died, a knot forming in your throat. Rylan raised his eyebrow expectantly at you, waiting for you to utter those words of loyalty you always did when the two of you disagreed.
“You are my lord, my brother. Where you tell me to point my sword, who you tell me to point it at, I shall do so.”
That icy look in his eyes did not disappear by any means, but satisfaction did gleam in them.
“Wise words, sweet sister,” He only ever referred to you as such a term when he got his way. “Now, I ask a favor of you, Y/n: begin gathering our ship captains and seafarers. We have nearly ten large war vessels and fifteen more agile boats all equipped with cannons, grapples, and scorpions. I'd like them moved to Lannisport. I've already received word from Lord Lannister, and he has already given us his approval to move our ships there.
“With our victory just a few short years ago against those Ironborn cunts, they will know better than to reave our ships while they sail from our port.”
It struck you: this had already been planned, and for quite some time. You risked a glance at Arden, wondering if he knew. Of course, he knew. There was no way that he didn't. He also did not wear a look of shame, but of regret.
You bow, your eyes flicking but to Rylan. “Of course, I'll see to it at once.”
With those final brief words, you turned your back on your brother’s council, not sharing a glance with either of your brothers or anyone sitting at that table.
A pit had formed in your stomach and a strange feeling crept from the small of your back to the nape of your neck, and your body was rigid with strain. Uncertainty, doubt, and shame. A deadly combo for someone such as yourself.
You closed your eyes for a moment, a memory resurfacing. A memory of a day spent on the beach watching waves crash against the beach of Dragonstone. A memory that included a boy of seven with dark curly hair, dark eyes, and eyes that always seemed to follow you.
When you opened your eyes, they stung. You clenched your fist, then unclenched it.
You ripped your focus away from the memory and placed it back on the task at hand: gather Captains Amos Ivers, Jon Farr, and Alby Higweed.
However, an image of dark curls and a boyish laugh and grin managed to slip through the mental gate you’d just sealed.
You only ground your teeth together and forced yourself onto a narrow path to follow the objective set forth for you. You repeated your oath as if it were a mantra, which, in its way, it was.
