#jacaeryse

He can hear a clicking noise from Tess, that’s what gives the other away. Brows furrow as he looks to his dragon who was already standing and alert at the newcomer. Daeron moves around telling her to calm down as he meets the gaze of his nephew. Still strange to say that when they’re close in age. They’ve never met but he can tell with how easily Tessarion relaxes that they’re related possibly.

Especially with how Aegon describes certain people in letters this seems like Jacaerys, or was this Lucerys?

the chill of the north seeps under his scales. burrows deep in his skin like some frigid parasite. the frilled membranes along the dorsal sides of his throat flare as he voices his discomfort.

dragons do not like cold. vermax does not like cold.

his tone is shrill, warbled. almost begging his bonded to turn back and bring them to a place that harbors more color, harbors more warmth. a taloned foot stamps once, twice, a child throwing a temper tantrum. it leaves a massive print within the pure white, one that will quickly be covered with the next snowfall.

a tree branch groans, bends under the pressure. with elaborate timing, it drops all its cold, wet contents onto the dragon's snout. he snorts, stumbles a little due to this attack by an unseen enemy. shakes his head like a panicked mutt, brushing nose against wing.

cold! much, much too cold!

Rhaenyra  stood  at  the  window  of  Maegor's  Holdfast  when  they  brought  him  through  the  gates.  For  a  moment,  she  did  not  move.  King's  Landing  was  hers  at  last.  The  banners  on  the  walls  had  changed,  the  Iron  Throne  sat  waiting,  and  yet  none  of  it  seemed  half  so  important  as  the  sight  of  her  eldest  son  crossing  the  yard  below.  Word  of  his  survival  had  reached  her  days  before,  carried  by  men  she  scarcely  trusted  to  count  their  own  fingers,  and  still  some  part  of  her  had  refused  to  believe  it.  Too  much  had  been  taken  already.  Lucerys  was  gone.  Visenya  had  never  drawn  breath.  The  war  had  taught  her  the  price  of  hope.  Yet  there  he  was.  Thinner  than  when  he  had  been  the  last  time  she  laid  eyes  on  him  at  Dragonstone,  moving  stiffly,  one  arm  bound  beneath  his  cloak,  but  alive. @jacaeryse

Blue  eyes  fell  to  his  feet  while  in  deep  thought.  He  heard  the  waves  outside  the  palace  crashing  along  the  rocks  almost  in  a  wild,  violent  way. Much like the war.  It  made  his  very  heart  beat  erratically  with  every  strike  of  his  blade.  He  was  almost  unable  to  stop,  and  that  scared  him  more  than  anything.  Vahaemion  reminded  him  quickly  about  who  Anakin  truly  was.  Being  thrown  from  his  seat  left  him  shaken.  He  could  still  hear  his  steel-breaking  roar  echoing  in  his  ears.  He  couldn't  afford  to  lose  himself  again.  No  matter  how  brief  it  was. Blue  hues  flicked  back  to  the  crowned  prince.  Jacaerys  was  young.  Anakin  honestly  knew  he  wasn't  that  much  older.  Maybe  a  handful  of  years  between  them.  But  he  could  see  through  the  prince  easily.  The  need  for  victory  was  easily  something  that  could  bring  his  downfall.  Anakin  was  the  same  way  when  he  was  that  age.  "And  once  the  Queen  finds  out?  She  will  have  my  head  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  you."  Pausing,  Anakin  was  once  young.  He  too  wanted  to  prove  himself.  What  harm  could  it  do?  "I  will  go  if  you  do  not  leave  my  side  in  the  fight.  Promise  me,  and  you  will  have  my  word."

What Jace didn't know was Baela had been up all night looking after Rhaena. She was distracted and tired but she still wanted to be there for Jace. She wanted normal moments so she'd gone walking alongside him and smiling politely at vendors. It all feels so fake to her and she feels like an utter fraud.

Baela made herself focus reaching out to brush Jace's hair behind his ear. She wanted to be here. She wanted to be normal. She was going to try because she loved him so much. She looks at the necklace then back at him. "It is beautiful." She agrees with a quick nod.

Daenerys never truly believed in the story of the Prince That was Promised. Viserys often said that it was him, that he was the one that the prophecy spoke about...but there was nothing in him except cruelty and desperation. He used to speak of old prophecies as if they belonged to him by birthright alone, as if the blood in his veins was enough to make the realm kneel.

Blood can make a person royal, but it could not make them worthy.

Finding Jacaerys beneath Dragonstone changed her belief in the prophecy, however...

She looked at him now as he stood across the Painted Table, the sea-salted air dancing through the chamber and stirring strands of her hair against her cheek., in awe. Since he woke, she found herself studying him, searching his face for pieces of a history she never got to know.

With him alive, she wasn't the end of House Targaryen. Their name reached backwards and forwards, tangled in fire, grief, and magic older than either of them.

Her stare followed his to the window, toward the dark shape of the island out of it.

“We will find Vermax,” Daenerys said, and there was no doubt in her voice. She brought her eyes back to him slowly, holding his stare as if her certainty alone could help guide him in this strange new world. “If you can sense him, then he lives.”

She stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing over the carved shape of Dragonstone. “We can search the Dragonmont. The caves, the old tunnels, the places men have forgotten to fear. I found you in the depths of this island, preserved where no living man should’ve been. I won’t pretend to understand the magic that saved you, but I won’t doubt it.”

Taking in his frown, Daenerys gave a small shake of her head as the corner of her own lips turned up in a comforting soft smile.

smooths  a  fingertip  down  the  center  of  his  palm  ─  pale  brow  slowly  arching,  when  it's  just  them  questions  like  this  cannot  help  but  to  coalesce.  as  if  somehow  he's  managed  to  pluck  them  from  some  obscure  part  of  his  brain  that  remains  disquieted.  even  the  booted  feet  thrown  across  lap  hardly  seem  to  lessen  this  restlessness,  the  heel  of  one  lightly  digging  in.  sits  up  straighter,  mouth  twisting  sideways  as  those  words  collect  on  the  back  of  her  tongue  like  a  promise.  betrothal  was  much  that  and  more.  soon  they  shall  make  one  forged  in  blood.     ❝     the  gods  will  have  to  pry  you  from  my  grasp,  jacaerys  velaryon.     ❞