𝕵. 𝑻𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒂𝒓𝒚𝒆𝒏

One of Sea, One of Snow

a starter for @thejacaerys

For not the first time in his life, Lucerys found himself staring down from a great height, wondering how he continued to find himself in these situations. 

Oh, that’s right. His fathead of a brother. No. No. That wasn’t fair….his impetuous fathead of a brother. 

Jacaerys Velaryon Targaryen. Heir to the Realm. The one who’d one day sit on the Iron Throne. A man grown and married with responsibilities. This was the man who now stood at the peak of Aegon’s mountain, grinning like a boy in short trousers, sled he’d fashioned himself slung confidently under one arm. 

“I’ll never understand why I let you talk me into these addle brained ideas of yours, Jace.” Lucerys looked askance at his brother, sighing heavily at the obvious fact that Jacaerys seemingly hadn’t heard his gripes - or more likely, was choosing not to hear them. 

Wind whipping about his face was nothing new to Lucerys, but the shards of ice embedded within assaulting his skin was. Pulling the cloak about his shoulders a bit tighter, he turned against the howling squall as best he could to once more attempt to dissuade Jace from this idiotic adventure. 

Looking at his brother though, he knew it’d be a lost cause. Jacaerys seemed never able to back down from a challenge, and Lucerys would be hard pressed to let him attempt anything foolhardy without being right there with him to suffer the ill effects. 

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

Viserys yelped as the flat of Jace’s practice sword smacked against his backside. Heat rushed to his face, not from pain—because it didn’t hurt, not really—but from sheer, boiling embarrassment.

Jace was laughing. Actually laughing. Like Vis was some fumbling child instead of a proper opponent.

Humiliation flared into something sharper, hotter. Viserys grit his teeth, bending to snatch up his fallen sword, gripping the hilt so tight his knuckles turned white.

Jace was stronger, taller, had longer reach. And yes, he was trained—trained well—but Vis was clever. He learned by watching, by adapting, and he never let himself lose the same way twice.

Straightforward attacks wouldn’t work. Jace had expected his speed, had matched it effortlessly. But if Vis could predict his counters—could lure him into a false rhythm—then maybe…

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If Jace wanted to play games, he’d play.

Vis shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the tension melting away. He forced a slow smirk onto his lips, raising his sword again with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Right,” he drawled. “Crown prince. Future king. I must remember to bow more often.”

Then he lunged.

But this time, it wasn’t just speed—he feinted high, a sharp downward slash aimed at Jace’s shoulder. Predictable. Easy to block. And when Jace did exactly that, lifting his sword to parry, Vis twisted—abruptly, shifting his weight low, ducking under his brother’s arm, and striking at Jace’s exposed ribs.

Viserys let Jace pull him up, but the moment he was steady, he smacked his brother’s hand away with a scowl.

“I was on my feet,” he argued, brushing dust from his tunic but only succeeding in spreading the dirt. “I just—” He hesitated, huffing. "Shut up.”

Jace was still grinning, like getting jabbed in the ribs had been some grand joke. Like Vis hadn’t actually won that round. He hated that. Hated how his brother always took everything in stride, like nothing ever truly bothered him. Like he wasn’t even trying.

He scowled deeper and crossed his arms. "You let me get that hit in, didn't you?"

Viserys narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. Jace had been stronger, faster, better for years. Even now, even with all the extra training, even with Aemond drilling him until his muscles ached—Vis knew his brother had the upper hand.

And still. Still. Jace had let him win that round.

That stung worse than any bruise.

Vis took a sharp breath, gripping his sword hilt so tight it dug into his palm. “Fight me properly!”

“You're not fighting properly!” He snapped continuing. “You’re humoring me. Like I’m some stupid little kid swinging a stick around!”

Jace blinked, his teasing smile fading slightly.

Viserys’s heart was thudding in his ears. He knew he was acting childish, that Jace probably had been going easy on him, that it made sense because Jace was older—but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Vis wanted to beat him. Fair and square. Wanted to prove he could. That he wasn’t just a boy playing at swords while his brother worried about boring king things.

He lifted his sword again, squaring his stance.

The crown prince's eyes tightened looking at the boy, there was something in his hands that tightened on the grip of the sword. He looked at his brother. "I did, like what I felt like doing," Jace responded. There was something in his eyes, the darkening in his little brother's eyes. He knew that Viserys was upset and it was going to drive Jacaerys insane. "Fine if it is what you want, then I will be serious, I will fight you how I will fight Aemond or Aegon. If that is exactly what you wish," He answered, his eyes darkened. The prince had a strong feeling in his heart, he always hating losing against Aemond. Especially Aemond. He picked up his sword, as he started to going after his brother again.

The jabs were more aggressive and there was more than just love anymore. He didn't care if Viserys was his younger brother, he was an opponet like all those he went against.

Viserys barely had time to react before Jace was on him.

The shift was immediate—gone was the teasing, the playful swats, the half-hearted defenses.

The first strike jarred him to his bones, their wooden swords colliding with force enough to make his wrist ache. Vis braced, trying to counter, but Jace was relentless. His older brother wasn’t playing anymore.

He barely blocked the next hit, but the impact sent him stumbling. Jace didn’t let up. He moved like a storm—sharp, fast, merciless.

Another hit, this time to his ribs. Vis gritted his teeth, trying to dodge, trying to regain his footing, but Jace was already on him again, pressing him back, faster than he could react. His brother had been holding back before—so much more than Vis had realized.

Panic clawed at his throat.

Another hit. His shoulder this time.

Every time he thought he found an opening, his brother shut it down effortlessly, knocking his sword aside like he was a child flailing at shadows.

And then—

Then—his sword was gone, knocked from his grasp so hard his fingers stung. And before he could fully register it, Jace pivoted, sweeping his leg out from under him.

Viserys hit the dirt hard landing badly on his shoulder, pain exploded in his ribs.

It was over.

Viserys gasped, his chest heaving as he stood frozen, the sting of the blows burning through him.

He lost.

Shame burned in his chest, hotter than the bruises forming beneath his tunic.

Jace was watching him, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look smug, or gloating—he just looked… disappointed.

That was worse.

Vis felt the sting in his eyes before he could stop it. No. No, he wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not in front of Jacaerys, not in front of the knights sparring nearby.

His brother reached out, probably to ruffle his hair again, to say something stupid and annoying, but Viserys slapped his hand away, whirling on his heel.

“I hate you,” he spat, his voice sharp, cracking.

And then he ran.

He didn’t care how it looked, didn’t care who saw—he had lost, and there was only one person who could fix this.

His father.

Vis stormed through the corridors, shoving past a servant, his left arm still aching from hitting the ground.

He found Kepa in the solar, seated at the table, idly sharpening Dark Sister. The sight of him, the familiar weight of his presence, only made Viserys’s anger boil hotter.

He marched right up to him, arms crossed, still scowling. “Jace was so mean to me.”

Daemon saw it coming the moment his youngest stormed into the room—fury in his eyes, chin tilted up in that way that always meant trouble. This boy was too much like him. Too quick to anger, too proud to let anyone see him stumble.

Now, Viserys stood before him, flushed and scowling, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He was trying so hard not to cry. Daemon didn’t speak at first. He simply set Dark Sister aside, leaning the blade carefully against the table before reaching for him. Viserys resisted—half a second of stiff, stubborn pride—but Daemon had always been stronger. He pulled him in, lifted him easily, settling him on his lap as if he were still small enough to fit there.

Vis didn’t fight it. Not really. His face pressed into his father’s shoulder, and then his body shuddered. Daemon exhaled, rubbing a slow, steady hand down his back.

“I know.” The words were quiet, but they were enough. The fight drained out of Viserys all at once. His hands fisted into Daemon’s tunic, and then he was shaking, his shoulders jerking as the tears came, silent but sharp.

Daemon didn’t hush him. Didn’t tell him to stop. Let him cry. Let him mourn the loss of his pride, the sting of knowing life wouldn’t go easy on him.

“He thought he was doing you a kindness,” Daemon murmured. “My brother did the same. He beat me, too. Never held back. Never let me win.” A quiet laugh, low and bitter. “I hated him for it. I cried so many times, thinking: how could he do this to me? He was supposed to love me.”

Vis shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t lift his head. Daemon smoothed his curls back, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“He did love me. He just didn’t know how else to teach me. He thought he was helping… keeping me from making the same mistakes he already knew how to avoid.” He sighed, his hand still stroking up and down Viserys’ back. “Jace doesn’t know how to be anything but earnest. He loves you. But he also knows what it means to be expected to lead. He won’t let himself be weak. And he won’t let you, either.”

A sniffle. A shuddering breath. Daemon gave him a squeeze, his grip sure and steady.

“But right now? You don’t need to think about any of that. Right now, you can just be a boy. And you can cry if you want to.”

Daemon didn’t press him, only sat with him, praying the weight of his presence could be enough. The quiet stretched, long and heavy, until the door creaked.

Daemon looked up. He already knew what he would see.

Jace lingered in the doorway, shoulders stiff, mouth drawn in a thin line. His brow was furrowed, but his eyes… Daemon knew that look. Knew the guilt in them. He met his eldest son’s gaze and leveled him with a look. See? he mouthed. Do you understand it now?

Jace’s mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a pout. He shifted on his feet, uneasy.

Daemon said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The lesson had already been taught.

The boys would make it right. They had to.

Viserys barely heard Jace’s apology over the pounding in his ears. His face was still buried in his Kepa’s shoulder, his body stiff, his chest heaving in the remnants of his anger and shame. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, refusing to move, refusing to acknowledge the presence of his older brother lingering in the doorway.

Jace didn’t mean it. Not really.

Vis knew that. Knew it in the way his brother’s voice sounded—tight, forced, like the words were being dragged from his throat against his will. Like he was only saying them because their father expected him to.

He hated that. He hated all of it. He hated liars.

Jace didn’t care that he was upset. He had only come because it was his duty. Because that’s what a proper heir does—pretends to care, offers apologies that mean nothing, learns how to say all the right words but never actually feel them.

It made Viserys’ stomach churn.

He whimpered, lifting his head only slightly from Daemon’s tunic. His father’s arm was still wrapped around him, solid and steady, but his free hand was braced on the table, fingers curled slightly—tense. Annoyed.

Good. Papa knew, too. Knew that Jace was only saying what he thought he was supposed to.

Vis sucked in a sharp breath, his face hot, his body still sore from the sparring match. He wiped at his cheeks angrily, but the tears wouldn’t stop completely. His emotions always got the better of him. That was why Jace was better. That was why Aeg was better.

He looked up just in time to see Jace turn away, his jaw set, his hands clenched at his sides. He wasn’t looking at him. He wasn’t even trying.

Coward.

Vis swallowed past the lump in his throat, watching as Jace stormed off, his form tense, like he was fighting the urge to slam the door behind him.

Daemon exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip tightening slightly where his fingers curled against the wood of the table.

His eldest son was already halfway out the door, spine stiff, shoulders squared like a boy trying to carry the weight of a man. His youngest was still tucked against him, his small frame shaking, his anger and shame warring with the raw emotion he couldn’t yet swallow down.

This was the part his brother had always avoided. The part that left cuts deeper than any blade.

“Jacaerys.” His voice was low, steady. It allowed no argument. “Come here.”

Jace hesitated. Daemon saw it in the shift of his weight, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, but he turned back nonetheless. He didn’t meet his father’s eyes, didn’t look at his brother either.

Daemon kept his arm around Viserys, but reached out with his free hand, catching Jace by the wrist before the boy could think to resist. He tugged him forward gently, guiding him down onto his lap.

The way he had when Jace was younger, when he would curl into his chest without hesitation, when he still saw his father as someone to run to instead of someone to defy. The boy was stiff now, rigid beneath his hands, but Daemon didn’t let him pull away.

“Stop,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to sit here. With me. With your brother.”

Jace didn’t fight again. He slumped, his face turned away, though his whole body vibrated with barely contained frustration. Daemon let out a slow breath, his hand resting on Jace’s back, the other still holding Viserys close. He felt them both; one trembling from anger and shame, the other from hurt and betrayal. Two boys who loved each other more than they could ever say, even if neither of them could feel it right now.

“I know,” Daemon started, his voice low, steady, even. “I know this isn’t fair. I know it feels like the world’s asking too much of you, Jace. You’re the eldest, the heir, and everyone expects you to be stronger, smarter, better, even when you’re barely old enough to know who you are. I know how that feels.”

I have seen this happening.

His voice didn’t waver, but his throat felt tight, his mind flicking back to a different solar, a different father, a different childhood where love and duty had never sat in the same room together.

“But you’re not just an heir, Jace. You’re a brother. His brother.” He glanced at Viserys, whose face was still buried against his shoulder. “Viserys is not ready to learn the lessons you think he needs to. And that is not a failure. It is simply what it means to be young.”

Daemon shifted, tilting his head just enough to meet Jace’s eyes, even when his son tried to avoid it. Stubborn as a dragon.

“And you, Viserys.” Daemon said, quieter still, his voice steady but not unkind. “Your brother isn’t the enemy. He’s not trying to hurt you because he enjoys it. He’s angry because he’s scared. Because he doesn’t know how to carry everything on his shoulders, and no one’s ever taught him how to put it down.”

Jace was still tense, his jaw clenched, but Daemon knew his son well enough to see the way his breathing changed. He knew that some part of him was listening, whether he wanted to or not.

“You both think you’re alone in this,” Daemon said, his voice low but steady. “You’re not. Not while I’m here. Not while you have each other.”

Daemon never had a father who would say that. He had never had a brother who could. But he was determined not to let his sons fall into the same trap.

He would be a better father.

He could be the man Rhaenyra deserved by her side, the one she could be proud of.

He could. He had to be.

“Not while I still draw breath. I won’t let you be alone.”

He felt his father’s hands on his back as his father told him words of wisdom. There was a slight hesitance in his action as he glanced up at him.

Hearing the words from Daemon… his head went down. Nothing felt right. He felt called out. He didn’t need to hear those words.

He already knew himself. He couldn’t meet his eyes… but he knew Daemon would force him to… he gave him a small glance.

Jace’s eyes couldn’t look at Viserys. Nothing to could force him to stare him down. Nothing. Though Viserys was the upset one— it made Jacaerys even more upset.

He knew he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. But he didn’t want to show weakness. He looked up in the slightest manner and then blinked the tears way.

The prince focused back onto Daemon… then he tightened his jaw. The way he always did. It outlined his jawline… in a sense…

When he heard the words that you would never be alone… his eyes— traveled towards Viserys and to Daemon.

“Viserys… you will never be alone… either….” Jacaerys whispered. “and I’m sorry…”

The words were truthful. Exactly, how he wanted to say it. He looked up at his father… and then back to his brother. His hand went to his shoulder giving him a slight squeeze.

A small ruffle on his brother’s hair… “I love you… and I’m never trying to purposely hurt you,”

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

Viserys yelped as the flat of Jace’s practice sword smacked against his backside. Heat rushed to his face, not from pain—because it didn’t hurt, not really—but from sheer, boiling embarrassment.

Jace was laughing. Actually laughing. Like Vis was some fumbling child instead of a proper opponent.

Humiliation flared into something sharper, hotter. Viserys grit his teeth, bending to snatch up his fallen sword, gripping the hilt so tight his knuckles turned white.

Jace was stronger, taller, had longer reach. And yes, he was trained—trained well—but Vis was clever. He learned by watching, by adapting, and he never let himself lose the same way twice.

Straightforward attacks wouldn’t work. Jace had expected his speed, had matched it effortlessly. But if Vis could predict his counters—could lure him into a false rhythm—then maybe…

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If Jace wanted to play games, he’d play.

Vis shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the tension melting away. He forced a slow smirk onto his lips, raising his sword again with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Right,” he drawled. “Crown prince. Future king. I must remember to bow more often.”

Then he lunged.

But this time, it wasn’t just speed—he feinted high, a sharp downward slash aimed at Jace’s shoulder. Predictable. Easy to block. And when Jace did exactly that, lifting his sword to parry, Vis twisted—abruptly, shifting his weight low, ducking under his brother’s arm, and striking at Jace’s exposed ribs.

Viserys let Jace pull him up, but the moment he was steady, he smacked his brother’s hand away with a scowl.

“I was on my feet,” he argued, brushing dust from his tunic but only succeeding in spreading the dirt. “I just—” He hesitated, huffing. "Shut up.”

Jace was still grinning, like getting jabbed in the ribs had been some grand joke. Like Vis hadn’t actually won that round. He hated that. Hated how his brother always took everything in stride, like nothing ever truly bothered him. Like he wasn’t even trying.

He scowled deeper and crossed his arms. "You let me get that hit in, didn't you?"

Viserys narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. Jace had been stronger, faster, better for years. Even now, even with all the extra training, even with Aemond drilling him until his muscles ached—Vis knew his brother had the upper hand.

And still. Still. Jace had let him win that round.

That stung worse than any bruise.

Vis took a sharp breath, gripping his sword hilt so tight it dug into his palm. “Fight me properly!”

“You're not fighting properly!” He snapped continuing. “You’re humoring me. Like I’m some stupid little kid swinging a stick around!”

Jace blinked, his teasing smile fading slightly.

Viserys’s heart was thudding in his ears. He knew he was acting childish, that Jace probably had been going easy on him, that it made sense because Jace was older—but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Vis wanted to beat him. Fair and square. Wanted to prove he could. That he wasn’t just a boy playing at swords while his brother worried about boring king things.

He lifted his sword again, squaring his stance.

The crown prince's eyes tightened looking at the boy, there was something in his hands that tightened on the grip of the sword. He looked at his brother. "I did, like what I felt like doing," Jace responded. There was something in his eyes, the darkening in his little brother's eyes. He knew that Viserys was upset and it was going to drive Jacaerys insane. "Fine if it is what you want, then I will be serious, I will fight you how I will fight Aemond or Aegon. If that is exactly what you wish," He answered, his eyes darkened. The prince had a strong feeling in his heart, he always hating losing against Aemond. Especially Aemond. He picked up his sword, as he started to going after his brother again.

The jabs were more aggressive and there was more than just love anymore. He didn't care if Viserys was his younger brother, he was an opponet like all those he went against.

Viserys barely had time to react before Jace was on him.

The shift was immediate—gone was the teasing, the playful swats, the half-hearted defenses.

The first strike jarred him to his bones, their wooden swords colliding with force enough to make his wrist ache. Vis braced, trying to counter, but Jace was relentless. His older brother wasn’t playing anymore.

He barely blocked the next hit, but the impact sent him stumbling. Jace didn’t let up. He moved like a storm—sharp, fast, merciless.

Another hit, this time to his ribs. Vis gritted his teeth, trying to dodge, trying to regain his footing, but Jace was already on him again, pressing him back, faster than he could react. His brother had been holding back before—so much more than Vis had realized.

Panic clawed at his throat.

Another hit. His shoulder this time.

Every time he thought he found an opening, his brother shut it down effortlessly, knocking his sword aside like he was a child flailing at shadows.

And then—

Then—his sword was gone, knocked from his grasp so hard his fingers stung. And before he could fully register it, Jace pivoted, sweeping his leg out from under him.

Viserys hit the dirt hard landing badly on his shoulder, pain exploded in his ribs.

It was over.

Viserys gasped, his chest heaving as he stood frozen, the sting of the blows burning through him.

He lost.

Shame burned in his chest, hotter than the bruises forming beneath his tunic.

Jace was watching him, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look smug, or gloating—he just looked… disappointed.

That was worse.

Vis felt the sting in his eyes before he could stop it. No. No, he wasn’t going to cry. Not here, not in front of Jacaerys, not in front of the knights sparring nearby.

His brother reached out, probably to ruffle his hair again, to say something stupid and annoying, but Viserys slapped his hand away, whirling on his heel.

“I hate you,” he spat, his voice sharp, cracking.

And then he ran.

He didn’t care how it looked, didn’t care who saw—he had lost, and there was only one person who could fix this.

His father.

Vis stormed through the corridors, shoving past a servant, his left arm still aching from hitting the ground.

He found Kepa in the solar, seated at the table, idly sharpening Dark Sister. The sight of him, the familiar weight of his presence, only made Viserys’s anger boil hotter.

He marched right up to him, arms crossed, still scowling. “Jace was so mean to me.”

Daemon saw it coming the moment his youngest stormed into the room—fury in his eyes, chin tilted up in that way that always meant trouble. This boy was too much like him. Too quick to anger, too proud to let anyone see him stumble.

Now, Viserys stood before him, flushed and scowling, his arms crossed tight over his chest. He was trying so hard not to cry. Daemon didn’t speak at first. He simply set Dark Sister aside, leaning the blade carefully against the table before reaching for him. Viserys resisted—half a second of stiff, stubborn pride—but Daemon had always been stronger. He pulled him in, lifted him easily, settling him on his lap as if he were still small enough to fit there.

Vis didn’t fight it. Not really. His face pressed into his father’s shoulder, and then his body shuddered. Daemon exhaled, rubbing a slow, steady hand down his back.

“I know.” The words were quiet, but they were enough. The fight drained out of Viserys all at once. His hands fisted into Daemon’s tunic, and then he was shaking, his shoulders jerking as the tears came, silent but sharp.

Daemon didn’t hush him. Didn’t tell him to stop. Let him cry. Let him mourn the loss of his pride, the sting of knowing life wouldn’t go easy on him.

“He thought he was doing you a kindness,” Daemon murmured. “My brother did the same. He beat me, too. Never held back. Never let me win.” A quiet laugh, low and bitter. “I hated him for it. I cried so many times, thinking: how could he do this to me? He was supposed to love me.”

Vis shifted, just slightly, but he didn’t lift his head. Daemon smoothed his curls back, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“He did love me. He just didn’t know how else to teach me. He thought he was helping… keeping me from making the same mistakes he already knew how to avoid.” He sighed, his hand still stroking up and down Viserys’ back. “Jace doesn’t know how to be anything but earnest. He loves you. But he also knows what it means to be expected to lead. He won’t let himself be weak. And he won’t let you, either.”

A sniffle. A shuddering breath. Daemon gave him a squeeze, his grip sure and steady.

“But right now? You don’t need to think about any of that. Right now, you can just be a boy. And you can cry if you want to.”

Daemon didn’t press him, only sat with him, praying the weight of his presence could be enough. The quiet stretched, long and heavy, until the door creaked.

Daemon looked up. He already knew what he would see.

Jace lingered in the doorway, shoulders stiff, mouth drawn in a thin line. His brow was furrowed, but his eyes… Daemon knew that look. Knew the guilt in them. He met his eldest son’s gaze and leveled him with a look. See? he mouthed. Do you understand it now?

Jace’s mouth twitched—not quite a frown, not quite a pout. He shifted on his feet, uneasy.

Daemon said nothing. He didn’t have to.

The lesson had already been taught.

The boys would make it right. They had to.

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

Viserys yelped as the flat of Jace’s practice sword smacked against his backside. Heat rushed to his face, not from pain—because it didn’t hurt, not really—but from sheer, boiling embarrassment.

Jace was laughing. Actually laughing. Like Vis was some fumbling child instead of a proper opponent.

Humiliation flared into something sharper, hotter. Viserys grit his teeth, bending to snatch up his fallen sword, gripping the hilt so tight his knuckles turned white.

Jace was stronger, taller, had longer reach. And yes, he was trained—trained well—but Vis was clever. He learned by watching, by adapting, and he never let himself lose the same way twice.

Straightforward attacks wouldn’t work. Jace had expected his speed, had matched it effortlessly. But if Vis could predict his counters—could lure him into a false rhythm—then maybe…

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If Jace wanted to play games, he’d play.

Vis shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the tension melting away. He forced a slow smirk onto his lips, raising his sword again with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Right,” he drawled. “Crown prince. Future king. I must remember to bow more often.”

Then he lunged.

But this time, it wasn’t just speed—he feinted high, a sharp downward slash aimed at Jace’s shoulder. Predictable. Easy to block. And when Jace did exactly that, lifting his sword to parry, Vis twisted—abruptly, shifting his weight low, ducking under his brother’s arm, and striking at Jace’s exposed ribs.

Viserys let Jace pull him up, but the moment he was steady, he smacked his brother’s hand away with a scowl.

“I was on my feet,” he argued, brushing dust from his tunic but only succeeding in spreading the dirt. “I just—” He hesitated, huffing. "Shut up.”

Jace was still grinning, like getting jabbed in the ribs had been some grand joke. Like Vis hadn’t actually won that round. He hated that. Hated how his brother always took everything in stride, like nothing ever truly bothered him. Like he wasn’t even trying.

He scowled deeper and crossed his arms. "You let me get that hit in, didn't you?"

Viserys narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t stupid. Jace had been stronger, faster, better for years. Even now, even with all the extra training, even with Aemond drilling him until his muscles ached—Vis knew his brother had the upper hand.

And still. Still. Jace had let him win that round.

That stung worse than any bruise.

Vis took a sharp breath, gripping his sword hilt so tight it dug into his palm. “Fight me properly!”

“You're not fighting properly!” He snapped continuing. “You’re humoring me. Like I’m some stupid little kid swinging a stick around!”

Jace blinked, his teasing smile fading slightly.

Viserys’s heart was thudding in his ears. He knew he was acting childish, that Jace probably had been going easy on him, that it made sense because Jace was older—but that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Vis wanted to beat him. Fair and square. Wanted to prove he could. That he wasn’t just a boy playing at swords while his brother worried about boring king things.

He lifted his sword again, squaring his stance.

The crown prince's eyes tightened looking at the boy, there was something in his hands that tightened on the grip of the sword. He looked at his brother. "I did, like what I felt like doing," Jace responded. There was something in his eyes, the darkening in his little brother's eyes. He knew that Viserys was upset and it was going to drive Jacaerys insane. "Fine if it is what you want, then I will be serious, I will fight you how I will fight Aemond or Aegon. If that is exactly what you wish," He answered, his eyes darkened. The prince had a strong feeling in his heart, he always hating losing against Aemond. Especially Aemond. He picked up his sword, as he started to going after his brother again.

The jabs were more aggressive and there was more than just love anymore. He didn't care if Viserys was his younger brother, he was an opponet like all those he went against.

starter for @princejoffreyvelaryon

Jacaerys was walking around the corridors of the castle as he was walking throughout in and out of the castle. He had been through the council meetings, and then he met his mother, and then his father. Things weren't that different, but he felt something that was extremely quiet. There was nothing much in the castle. As Jacaerys was about to turn the corridor, he saw a footstep behind him. He didn't want to be bother, as he looked back to see who it was. Joffery. He sighed, he knew that Joffery was going to do. It was clear and obvious. Only because it was his childhood habit. Once they start walking, he wasn't going to stop. Jacaerys closed his eyes, as he was able to take a deep breath. He realized he need to focus on his siblings, but he was going to just ignore her. Jacaerys started to walk again, he learned from his past, walking faster would get Joffery to leave him alone. The prince was started walking faster, as he walked around through in and out of the castle swerving around the corridors. And then once they were doing this back and forth and he was getting exhausted. Right as he came to the door, he turned to Joffery. "What do you want?" His voice slightly annoyed. "You follow me around every time you need something," he looked at his brother.

His sorrow did not last long, fortunately for him, as he suddenly caught sight of his eldest brother Jacaerys making his way to his own rooms. He started making his way towards Jacaerys, noticing how the elder of the two had looked back at Joffrey but not stopped. In fact, he had not only not stopped, but he seemed to start walking faster. Joffrey pouted, trying to match Jacaerys speed down the hallway to catch up with him. "Brother!" He called out.

It was almost as if he was chasing Jacaerys now, running down the hallways in the direction of his room. Though it felt very familiar to Joffrey, as it seemed every time he wanted to see Jacaerys, he ended up walking behind him for a while before he got what he wanted from the older of the two.

The chase ended with them breathing heavy in front of Jacaerys door to his chambers. His big brother looked back at him.

Joffrey heard the annoyance in his brothers voice and felt hurt, but the soft ruffle of his hair washed it away at once. "I want to spend time with you!" Joffrey whined, soaking in the words Jacaerys had just told him. "I follow you because you are so fast when you walk!"

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

Viserys yelped as the flat of Jace’s practice sword smacked against his backside. Heat rushed to his face, not from pain—because it didn’t hurt, not really—but from sheer, boiling embarrassment.

Jace was laughing. Actually laughing. Like Vis was some fumbling child instead of a proper opponent.

Humiliation flared into something sharper, hotter. Viserys grit his teeth, bending to snatch up his fallen sword, gripping the hilt so tight his knuckles turned white.

Jace was stronger, taller, had longer reach. And yes, he was trained—trained well—but Vis was clever. He learned by watching, by adapting, and he never let himself lose the same way twice.

Straightforward attacks wouldn’t work. Jace had expected his speed, had matched it effortlessly. But if Vis could predict his counters—could lure him into a false rhythm—then maybe…

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Fine. If Jace wanted to play games, he’d play.

Vis shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back, the tension melting away. He forced a slow smirk onto his lips, raising his sword again with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Right,” he drawled. “Crown prince. Future king. I must remember to bow more often.”

Then he lunged.

But this time, it wasn’t just speed—he feinted high, a sharp downward slash aimed at Jace’s shoulder. Predictable. Easy to block. And when Jace did exactly that, lifting his sword to parry, Vis twisted—abruptly, shifting his weight low, ducking under his brother’s arm, and striking at Jace’s exposed ribs.

Starter with @thejacaerys

✧══════•❁❀❁•══════✧

The early hours of the morning were calm and slightly chilly. Baela smelled the salt air of the sea from the window of the room she shared with Jace at her father’s old estate in Pentos. She had missed that place. And she knew Moondancer had missed it, too. She was somewhere in the skies, flying along Vermax over the sea, by that time. The familiar sight of the bay brought her memories, most of them fond.

Jace was still asleep on the bed, the linen sheets covering him. He looked so handsome whilst he was asleep. But, then again, he always looked handsome. His brown hair was sticking to his forehead with the sweat. She sat next to his sleeping form, gently caressing his cheek.

She gave him a soft kiss on the top of his head and another one on his cheek. She had always liked Jace’s face, especially his hair and eyes, those same warm brown eyes that always looked at her with warmth and tenderness. First as children, then as teens, and, now, as man and wife.

He started to stir in bed and making cute sleepy sounds, signaling he was starting to wake up. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of adorableness wash over her, so she kissed his cheek again and gave him a short, yet sweet, kiss on his lips.

“Good morning, my sweet prince”, she whispered softly in Jace’s ear as he was slowly starting to open his eyes. “I trust you had a pleasant sleep”.

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Viserys wrinkled his nose, swatting at Jace’s hand as he messed up his hair again. He wasn’t a little kid. He was nearly a man grown. Almost 13.

He crossed his arms over his chest, watching Jace work, his face carefully set in something unimpressed. But inside, he was grinning. He had won.

Jace could act as grumpy and dutiful as he wanted, but in the end, Vis always got his way.

“Fix my attitude?” he repeated, mocking Jace’s deeper tone with an exaggerated frown. He lifted his sword, tapping the flat of it against Jace’s arm. “You sound like an old septon. What’s next? You’ll have me copying out boring passages from history books as punishment?”

Jace rolled his eyes, already moving toward the yard where the dirt had been churned up from countless drills and duels. The clang of steel echoed from the other side, where knights sparred in pairs, but Vis ignored them. He was focused entirely on Jace.

“I bet you haven’t been keeping up with your footwork,” Vis went on, stepping into the yard with a swagger. He planted his feet, mirroring the stance Aemond had drilled into him over and over. “You probably stand there like a stiff old lord and let people come to you.”

He grinned, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. “That’s fine, though. I’ll make sure to run circles around you.”

Without waiting for some boring lecture about patience and discipline, Vis swung. It wasn’t reckless—he was trained enough to know better—but it was fast, and he meant it. Their swords met with a sharp clang, the force of it vibrating up his arms. Jace blocked him easily, of course, but that didn’t matter.

He was going to make his brother work for it.

Jacaerys didn't like the tone of his brother, little spoilt prince. There was something darkening in her eyes, as the boy picked up his sword swinging it around, like it was nothing. He hated how his younger brother was trying to judge him, yet little does his brother know that the prince had been practicing all night. He makes sure that he wasn't going to look like he was out of shape. Because he knew he wasn't. Once he saw the stance, he knew Aemond has been training him. His eye rolled even more. "See that Uncle Aemond has been training you," He knew every move of Aemond. Aemond's technique wasn't anything special. Once you studied it enough, he was able to get at his brother as much as he wanted.

starter for @the-lord-confessor

“The truth, that held behind close doors,”

It was quite the let night at Red Keep, as Jacaerys had been doing some paperwork, and reading scrolls. His head started to hurt from the stuff he was reading, as it seemed like all the words were repeating all over again.

He sighed as he got up, and he knew how Daemon had invited him to his chambers a while back, but he just hadn’t had time to go. He gathered everything on his desk cleaning it up, and putting it into a neat pile.

He pushed himself up as he headed towards the door. His head ran with questions he could ask Daemon, knowing the prince had looked up to for so long. Jacaerys walked through the quiet corridors, hearing his younger siblings not sleeping, but giggling with another playing.

He turned the corner as he came right across Daemon’s chambers as he gave a gently knock and he heard a come in.

Jacaerys walked in, as he gave his head a small tilt giving him a small respectful greeting.

He watched as he sat in front of Daemon… it shouldn’t have been this awkward but it was.

He fiddled with his ring… something he use to do with his mother’s hand… as he started to speak. “Father… I am curious about things about ruling…” he started as he looked up at Daemon who had across him with his casual smirk.

“Do you think… I can rule as great as my mother…will? or will just fall behind the shadows of the kings and queen before me…?”

Daemon studied the boy before him, the firelight carving sharp angles into his face. Jacaerys looked so much like Rhaenyra—the same stubborn set of his chin, the same quiet fire burning behind his eyes. But where Rhaenyra’s will was a forge, shaping the world to her desires, Jacaerys was still untempered steel. His fingers toyed restlessly with his ring, his shoulders curled inward ever so slightly. A boy weighed down by a crown he did not yet wear.

"Your mother will be a great queen." Daemon did not say if. There was no if. Rhaenyra was fire and steel. She would rule with her iron fist and disarming smile. But Jacaerys was not her. That was the point.

"Every ruler’s strength is another’s weakness," Daemon continued. "And every ruler’s weakness is another’s strength. You will face trials she never did. And you will overcome them in ways she never could."

Jacaerys’ lips parted as if to respond, but he hesitated. Daemon caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the weight of history pressing down upon him; the kings before, the queens yet to come, their legacies stretching behind him like a road paved in blood.

"You think too much of ghosts," Daemon said, voice quieter now, words curling like the smoke of the dying embers. "Of the ones who came before, of the ones who will come after. But what are shadows, if not proof that you stand in the light?" He tilted his head, smirking faintly. "You will not be your mother. You will not be Viserys, or Maegor, or Jaehaerys before him. You will be Jacaerys Velaryon. And that will be enough." He let the words settle, let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a bowstring. Then, softer, knowing too well the weight of expectation pressed against the throat like a blade, he added,

Daemon studied the boy—no, the man—before him, watching the firelight flicker in Jacaerys’ dark eyes. There was steel in him, hard and unyielding. His mother’s steel. His own. Daemon had seen many would-be kings, men who sat tall and spoke boldly, but Jacaerys… Jace had the heart for it. The hunger. The pain. The need to carve his name into history, with fire and blood if need be.

Daemon swirled his wine in his cup, considering his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, but no less certain.

"You will be a great king one day." He let the words hang in the air. A fact. A promise. "Not because of the name they give you, but because of who you are. Targaryen, Velaryon… it matters little in the end. What matters is that you were born from Rhaenyra, from the Queen. That throne was promised to her, and it will be yours by right."

His gaze dropped to the ring in Jace’s hand. A Velaryon ring. A name that had been both shield and spear against him his whole life. He had endured whispers, scorn, the weight of doubt pressing down on him from the moment he could walk. Daemon knew that feeling all too well. He had carried it himself, though his burden had been different.

"They will call you many things before you wear the crown," Daemon murmured. "Some will spit your name like a curse. Others will swear their fealty and break it the moment you turn your back. But in the end, they will know you as what you are: a king. *Our* king."

He looked at Jacaerys again, truly looked at him. He saw himself in the sharp angles of his face, in the restless set of his jaw, in the stubborn fire that burned behind his eyes. Jace was not of his blood, but he was his son.

"You were never a bastard to me," Daemon said at last. "And you were never just a Velaryon. You are my son, Jacaerys. Just as Baela is my daughter. That is the truth of it, and damn anyone who would deny it."

The words settled between them, heavier than the wine in their cups. Daemon had never been a man for grand speeches of love, never one to say the things that rested beneath his ribs, but tonight was different.

He leaned back, exhaling sharply. His mind drifted to another boy, another time. Viserys, sitting on the Iron Throne for the first time. Young, wide-eyed, full of dreams and the weight of duty. He had wanted to be good. He had wanted to rule well. And though Viserys had been blind in the end, though he had faltered and failed, Daemon could not forget the brother he had once known.

Viserys had believed in peace once, in trust, in a world that did not exist. But Jace… Jace would not be so blind. He was too much like Rhaenyra to be fooled.

"My brother once sat where you will sit," he said at last, voice rougher now. "He was a fool in many ways, but not at the start. At the start, he wanted to be good. And he tried, in his own way. That is the weight of the crown. It bends men, warps them, but you are strong. You will bear it well, better than he did."

He downed the rest of his wine in one swift motion, as if to wash away the ghosts.

"You will be remembered, Jace," he said, his voice steady again. "Not as a Velaryon. Not as a bastard. But as a Targaryen King. And I will make sure of it."

He thought of Viserys again.

He had not been ready.

But Rhaenyra was.

Even now, after all these years, there was still something of that uncertain child in Jace’s eyes, the boy who had looked up at him with questions he could not always answer, with fears he could not always dispel. But this, at least, he could give him.

“You are a Targaryen,” Daemon said, his voice firm. “By blood, by birth, and by right. No name they give you will change that.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Jacaerys as if daring him to argue. When silence came, Damon exhaled. Good. “You are the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen. And I’ll tell you this, Jace, when the histories are written, when the singers craft their songs, they will call you Jacaerys the Fair. And not just for your great looks.”

Daemon let the words settle, watching as Jace absorbed them, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly. He knew what it was to feel the weight of expectation, to be made to prove oneself again and again. It was an exhausting burden, one too heavy for any man, let alone one so young.

“You will be king, and you will keep the peace,” Daemon continued, his tone quieter now, but no less certain. “Not because you must, but because you choose to. Because it is what you believe in. And I will be here, for as long as you need me.”

Jacaerys hesitated then, shifting in his seat, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

"May I get a hug... from you?"

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. Then, without a word, he moved forward, wrapping his arms around Jacaerys and pulling him close. He felt the slight tremor in the boy’s breath, the way he melted into the embrace as if it were something he had longed for but had not known how to ask.

“You never have to ask,” Daemon murmured. “As many as you like, for as long as you need.”

He rested a hand against the back of Jace’s head, fingers threading through his dark curls as he had done when he was younger, when the world had seemed a simpler place, when Rhaenyra’s arms alone had been enough to shield him from the burdens of kingship. He could feel Jace’s heartbeat against his own, steady and strong. No one was too old for this—not for comfort, not for the quiet assurance that they were not alone.

Daemon tightened his hold for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at him, his hands still resting on Jacaerys’ shoulders.

“No one is too old for a father’s embrace. And don’t fear, I will always protect you, as long as I draw breath. That, I swear."

He didn’t move only the hands of Daemon’s relaxing him once again like he was a little boy. When he was with Daemon he felt small again. As if it was life again at Dragonstone, where his mother would protect him from all the harm.

He didn’t say anything, he was just a little boy once again. Asking his mother for sweets… running around with Luke, and Joffery.

Simpler times back then.

He knew how much his mother suffered, he knew the struggles of being an heir. Yet his mother and Daemon both did everything to ease that thought in his head.

Jacaerys looked at Daemon. “I know you said not to bring up the dead again… ghosts… but I wish to be a King… if Prince Baelon was alive. I know he would’ve been a great King…”

He liked to talk about history… but he slightly leaned into Daemon again. Little boy he thought himself. he was still a little child in his mind.

His eyes looked up to Daemon. “Thank you for always protecting me when I needed it the most,” He whispered.

Daemon held the boy close, feeling the weight of Jacaerys against him—light in body, but heavy with something far deeper. It was a weight Daemon knew intimately, one he had carried himself long ago. His hand moved slowly over Jacaerys’ back, a steady, rhythmic motion that spoke of comfort and care. It was the same way he had soothed his daughters when they were young, the same way his mother had once done for him. Gentleness was not a trait he often claimed, but some moments demanded it.

He exhaled, long and measured, letting his chin rest atop Jacaerys’ head. The boy’s hair smelled faintly of the sea, a reminder of Dragonstone and the life they had built there.

"Prince Baelon." The name slipped from his lips, softer than he had spoken it in years. There was no bitterness this time, no sharp edge to cut the air. Instead, it felt almost like an offering, a quiet acknowledgment of the man who had shaped him. His father had been a legend in his own right—a warrior-prince whose name echoed through the halls of history. Daemon had spent his life chasing that shadow, desperate to prove himself worthy of it. Or perhaps, he thought now, he had only ever wanted to be seen by it.

Baelon had been a hard man, not cruel but unyielding, always striving for something greater. He had been a figure on horseback, a voice in the training yard, a presence that loomed large but rarely lingered. Daemon had told himself it didn’t matter. He had Viserys, after all. Viserys, who laughed easily, who sneaked them extra honey cakes when their mother wasn’t looking. But then Aemon died, and everything changed. Their father grew distant, Viserys became the heir, and Daemon was left to carve out his place in the world alone.

He had tried, gods knew he had tried. He had fought harder, ridden faster, pushed himself to the brink, all in the hope that his father would turn his gaze back to him. But Baelon had never been a man to dwell on what lay behind his shadow.

And then, suddenly, he was gone.

Daemon sighed, his hand never ceasing its slow, soothing motion. His father was dead, Viserys rested among the crypts of their ancestors, and yet here he was, decades later, still caught in the echoes of what had been left unsaid. It had shaped him, shaped Viserys, shaped the realm itself. And now, it shaped the boy in his arms.

Jacaerys shifted slightly, his breath warm against Daemon’s chest. The boy didn’t know how much of himself Daemon saw in him, how much of his own past threatened to repeat. But Daemon would not let it. He could not. He tightened his hold, just slightly, as if he could shield Jacaerys from the weight of legacy, from the expectations and the shadows that had haunted him for so long.

“I will always protect you,” he murmured, the words quiet but firm. They were a promise, not just to Jacaerys but to himself. His father had been a great warrior, a great prince, but he had not been this. He had not held his sons when they were small, had not pressed a steady hand to their backs when they were uncertain. Daemon would be better.

He pressed his lips to Jacaerys’ temple, a rare and fleeting gesture of tenderness. The boy stirred, looking up at him with eyes that were too old for his years. Daemon forced a small smile, brushing a strand of hair from Jacaerys’ forehead.

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

Viserys blinked at Jace, his grip loosening just a fraction. His brother never yelled. Not at him. Not at Aeg. Not at Joff. Not at anyone, really. But now, Jace’s voice had cracked sharp as a whip, the weight of his irritation pressing down between them like a storm rolling in over Blackwater Bay.

For a moment, Vis considered backing off. Just a moment.

Then he saw it—the flicker of guilt in Jace’s eyes, the sigh that came after, and the way he picked up his sword without another word. That was as much of a victory as he was going to get and the triumph burned away the sting of jace's irritation.

Viserys didn’t give his brother the chance to change his mind. He spun on his heel and strode toward the door, shoving it open with a little more force than necessary.

“This way,” he ordered, stepping in the corridor.

As they walked, Vis stole a glance at his brother. Jace still looked tense, his shoulders rigid beneath the fine black doublet he wore. Even now, even when being dragged away from his boring duties, he carried himself like a prince, a future king. Like someone who never had time for fun, not anymore.

That wasn’t fair.

He huffed but he was too busy marching them toward the armory, most of the keep’s men were at the yard already, leaving the room mostly empty.

Viserys let go of Jace’s sleeve and went straight to the weapon racks. He grabbed his own practice sword—a sturdy thing, not too heavy but not light enough to be a child’s toy.

“You can be as grumpy as you want, but you’re still sparring with me.”

Swordplay

Starter for @thejacaerys

Viserys hated being ignored.

Especially by Jace.

His older brother sat hunched over a heavy wooden table, scribbling furiously on parchment, muttering to himself about trade routes and taxes. Viserys didn't care about trade routes. He cared about swords. And Jace was supposed to be at the training yard with him, not buried in endless, boring duties that made his head ache just by watching.

He didn't want to think about ruling. That was Jacaerys’s burden, not his. And if he had to hear one more thing about stuff like that, he might start throwing the inkpots off the table.

Instead, he marched forward, grabbed Jace’s arm, and tugged.

"You promised. Get up."

Jace sighed, but Viserys didn’t let go. He braced his feet, pulling harder, forcing Jace to stumble to standing. "If you’re strong enough to fight me on this, you're strong enough to swing a sword. Move!"

“You’re always in the middle of something. If you don’t practice, you’ll turn into one of those old lords with a belly too round to fit in your armor.”

Vis knew that if he pushed just a bit more, his brother’s sense of duty—to him, at least—would outweigh his duty to parchment and ink.

Jacaerys was not only focusing on the idea of getting ready for his honeymoon, he had to finish a couple of the things before he had to go.

He read through the papers that were given to him, as he had completely forgotten that he had promised Viserys something. He started to focus on doing the maths of the money and funds they had.

His door bursted opened as his eyes slowly looked up only to see Viserys walked through. It wasn’t his normal walk, he was striding through the door.

starter for @the-lord-confessor

“The truth, that held behind close doors,”

It was quite the let night at Red Keep, as Jacaerys had been doing some paperwork, and reading scrolls. His head started to hurt from the stuff he was reading, as it seemed like all the words were repeating all over again.

He sighed as he got up, and he knew how Daemon had invited him to his chambers a while back, but he just hadn’t had time to go. He gathered everything on his desk cleaning it up, and putting it into a neat pile.

He pushed himself up as he headed towards the door. His head ran with questions he could ask Daemon, knowing the prince had looked up to for so long. Jacaerys walked through the quiet corridors, hearing his younger siblings not sleeping, but giggling with another playing.

He turned the corner as he came right across Daemon’s chambers as he gave a gently knock and he heard a come in.

Jacaerys walked in, as he gave his head a small tilt giving him a small respectful greeting.

He watched as he sat in front of Daemon… it shouldn’t have been this awkward but it was.

He fiddled with his ring… something he use to do with his mother’s hand… as he started to speak. “Father… I am curious about things about ruling…” he started as he looked up at Daemon who had across him with his casual smirk.

“Do you think… I can rule as great as my mother…will? or will just fall behind the shadows of the kings and queen before me…?”

Daemon studied the boy before him, the firelight carving sharp angles into his face. Jacaerys looked so much like Rhaenyra—the same stubborn set of his chin, the same quiet fire burning behind his eyes. But where Rhaenyra’s will was a forge, shaping the world to her desires, Jacaerys was still untempered steel. His fingers toyed restlessly with his ring, his shoulders curled inward ever so slightly. A boy weighed down by a crown he did not yet wear.

"Your mother will be a great queen." Daemon did not say if. There was no if. Rhaenyra was fire and steel. She would rule with her iron fist and disarming smile. But Jacaerys was not her. That was the point.

"Every ruler’s strength is another’s weakness," Daemon continued. "And every ruler’s weakness is another’s strength. You will face trials she never did. And you will overcome them in ways she never could."

Jacaerys’ lips parted as if to respond, but he hesitated. Daemon caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the weight of history pressing down upon him; the kings before, the queens yet to come, their legacies stretching behind him like a road paved in blood.

"You think too much of ghosts," Daemon said, voice quieter now, words curling like the smoke of the dying embers. "Of the ones who came before, of the ones who will come after. But what are shadows, if not proof that you stand in the light?" He tilted his head, smirking faintly. "You will not be your mother. You will not be Viserys, or Maegor, or Jaehaerys before him. You will be Jacaerys Velaryon. And that will be enough." He let the words settle, let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a bowstring. Then, softer, knowing too well the weight of expectation pressed against the throat like a blade, he added,

Daemon studied the boy—no, the man—before him, watching the firelight flicker in Jacaerys’ dark eyes. There was steel in him, hard and unyielding. His mother’s steel. His own. Daemon had seen many would-be kings, men who sat tall and spoke boldly, but Jacaerys… Jace had the heart for it. The hunger. The pain. The need to carve his name into history, with fire and blood if need be.

Daemon swirled his wine in his cup, considering his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, but no less certain.

"You will be a great king one day." He let the words hang in the air. A fact. A promise. "Not because of the name they give you, but because of who you are. Targaryen, Velaryon… it matters little in the end. What matters is that you were born from Rhaenyra, from the Queen. That throne was promised to her, and it will be yours by right."

His gaze dropped to the ring in Jace’s hand. A Velaryon ring. A name that had been both shield and spear against him his whole life. He had endured whispers, scorn, the weight of doubt pressing down on him from the moment he could walk. Daemon knew that feeling all too well. He had carried it himself, though his burden had been different.

"They will call you many things before you wear the crown," Daemon murmured. "Some will spit your name like a curse. Others will swear their fealty and break it the moment you turn your back. But in the end, they will know you as what you are: a king. *Our* king."

He looked at Jacaerys again, truly looked at him. He saw himself in the sharp angles of his face, in the restless set of his jaw, in the stubborn fire that burned behind his eyes. Jace was not of his blood, but he was his son.

"You were never a bastard to me," Daemon said at last. "And you were never just a Velaryon. You are my son, Jacaerys. Just as Baela is my daughter. That is the truth of it, and damn anyone who would deny it."

The words settled between them, heavier than the wine in their cups. Daemon had never been a man for grand speeches of love, never one to say the things that rested beneath his ribs, but tonight was different.

He leaned back, exhaling sharply. His mind drifted to another boy, another time. Viserys, sitting on the Iron Throne for the first time. Young, wide-eyed, full of dreams and the weight of duty. He had wanted to be good. He had wanted to rule well. And though Viserys had been blind in the end, though he had faltered and failed, Daemon could not forget the brother he had once known.

Viserys had believed in peace once, in trust, in a world that did not exist. But Jace… Jace would not be so blind. He was too much like Rhaenyra to be fooled.

"My brother once sat where you will sit," he said at last, voice rougher now. "He was a fool in many ways, but not at the start. At the start, he wanted to be good. And he tried, in his own way. That is the weight of the crown. It bends men, warps them, but you are strong. You will bear it well, better than he did."

He downed the rest of his wine in one swift motion, as if to wash away the ghosts.

"You will be remembered, Jace," he said, his voice steady again. "Not as a Velaryon. Not as a bastard. But as a Targaryen King. And I will make sure of it."

He thought of Viserys again.

He had not been ready.

But Rhaenyra was.

Even now, after all these years, there was still something of that uncertain child in Jace’s eyes, the boy who had looked up at him with questions he could not always answer, with fears he could not always dispel. But this, at least, he could give him.

“You are a Targaryen,” Daemon said, his voice firm. “By blood, by birth, and by right. No name they give you will change that.” He tilted his head slightly, studying Jacaerys as if daring him to argue. When silence came, Damon exhaled. Good. “You are the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen. And I’ll tell you this, Jace, when the histories are written, when the singers craft their songs, they will call you Jacaerys the Fair. And not just for your great looks.”

Daemon let the words settle, watching as Jace absorbed them, the tension in his shoulders easing, if only slightly. He knew what it was to feel the weight of expectation, to be made to prove oneself again and again. It was an exhausting burden, one too heavy for any man, let alone one so young.

“You will be king, and you will keep the peace,” Daemon continued, his tone quieter now, but no less certain. “Not because you must, but because you choose to. Because it is what you believe in. And I will be here, for as long as you need me.”

Jacaerys hesitated then, shifting in his seat, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a whisper.

"May I get a hug... from you?"

For a moment, Daemon said nothing. Then, without a word, he moved forward, wrapping his arms around Jacaerys and pulling him close. He felt the slight tremor in the boy’s breath, the way he melted into the embrace as if it were something he had longed for but had not known how to ask.

“You never have to ask,” Daemon murmured. “As many as you like, for as long as you need.”

He rested a hand against the back of Jace’s head, fingers threading through his dark curls as he had done when he was younger, when the world had seemed a simpler place, when Rhaenyra’s arms alone had been enough to shield him from the burdens of kingship. He could feel Jace’s heartbeat against his own, steady and strong. No one was too old for this—not for comfort, not for the quiet assurance that they were not alone.

Daemon tightened his hold for a moment before pulling back just enough to look at him, his hands still resting on Jacaerys’ shoulders.

“No one is too old for a father’s embrace. And don’t fear, I will always protect you, as long as I draw breath. That, I swear."

He didn’t move only the hands of Daemon’s relaxing him once again like he was a little boy. When he was with Daemon he felt small again. As if it was life again at Dragonstone, where his mother would protect him from all the harm.

He didn’t say anything, he was just a little boy once again. Asking his mother for sweets… running around with Luke, and Joffery.

Simpler times back then.

He knew how much his mother suffered, he knew the struggles of being an heir. Yet his mother and Daemon both did everything to ease that thought in his head.

Jacaerys looked at Daemon. “I know you said not to bring up the dead again… ghosts… but I wish to be a King… if Prince Baelon was alive. I know he would’ve been a great King…”

He liked to talk about history… but he slightly leaned into Daemon again. Little boy he thought himself. he was still a little child in his mind.

His eyes looked up to Daemon. “Thank you for always protecting me when I needed it the most,” He whispered.

starter for @the-lord-confessor

“The truth, that held behind close doors,”

It was quite the let night at Red Keep, as Jacaerys had been doing some paperwork, and reading scrolls. His head started to hurt from the stuff he was reading, as it seemed like all the words were repeating all over again.

He sighed as he got up, and he knew how Daemon had invited him to his chambers a while back, but he just hadn’t had time to go. He gathered everything on his desk cleaning it up, and putting it into a neat pile.

He pushed himself up as he headed towards the door. His head ran with questions he could ask Daemon, knowing the prince had looked up to for so long. Jacaerys walked through the quiet corridors, hearing his younger siblings not sleeping, but giggling with another playing.

He turned the corner as he came right across Daemon’s chambers as he gave a gently knock and he heard a come in.

Jacaerys walked in, as he gave his head a small tilt giving him a small respectful greeting.

He watched as he sat in front of Daemon… it shouldn’t have been this awkward but it was.

He fiddled with his ring… something he use to do with his mother’s hand… as he started to speak. “Father… I am curious about things about ruling…” he started as he looked up at Daemon who had across him with his casual smirk.

“Do you think… I can rule as great as my mother…will? or will just fall behind the shadows of the kings and queen before me…?”

Daemon studied the boy before him, the firelight carving sharp angles into his face. Jacaerys looked so much like Rhaenyra—the same stubborn set of his chin, the same quiet fire burning behind his eyes. But where Rhaenyra’s will was a forge, shaping the world to her desires, Jacaerys was still untempered steel. His fingers toyed restlessly with his ring, his shoulders curled inward ever so slightly. A boy weighed down by a crown he did not yet wear.

"Your mother will be a great queen." Daemon did not say if. There was no if. Rhaenyra was fire and steel. She would rule with her iron fist and disarming smile. But Jacaerys was not her. That was the point.

"Every ruler’s strength is another’s weakness," Daemon continued. "And every ruler’s weakness is another’s strength. You will face trials she never did. And you will overcome them in ways she never could."

Jacaerys’ lips parted as if to respond, but he hesitated. Daemon caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the weight of history pressing down upon him; the kings before, the queens yet to come, their legacies stretching behind him like a road paved in blood.

"You think too much of ghosts," Daemon said, voice quieter now, words curling like the smoke of the dying embers. "Of the ones who came before, of the ones who will come after. But what are shadows, if not proof that you stand in the light?" He tilted his head, smirking faintly. "You will not be your mother. You will not be Viserys, or Maegor, or Jaehaerys before him. You will be Jacaerys Velaryon. And that will be enough." He let the words settle, let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a bowstring. Then, softer, knowing too well the weight of expectation pressed against the throat like a blade, he added,

Daemon studied the boy—no, the man—before him, watching the firelight flicker in Jacaerys’ dark eyes. There was steel in him, hard and unyielding. His mother’s steel. His own. Daemon had seen many would-be kings, men who sat tall and spoke boldly, but Jacaerys… Jace had the heart for it. The hunger. The pain. The need to carve his name into history, with fire and blood if need be.

Daemon swirled his wine in his cup, considering his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, but no less certain.

"You will be a great king one day." He let the words hang in the air. A fact. A promise. "Not because of the name they give you, but because of who you are. Targaryen, Velaryon… it matters little in the end. What matters is that you were born from Rhaenyra, from the Queen. That throne was promised to her, and it will be yours by right."

His gaze dropped to the ring in Jace’s hand. A Velaryon ring. A name that had been both shield and spear against him his whole life. He had endured whispers, scorn, the weight of doubt pressing down on him from the moment he could walk. Daemon knew that feeling all too well. He had carried it himself, though his burden had been different.

"They will call you many things before you wear the crown," Daemon murmured. "Some will spit your name like a curse. Others will swear their fealty and break it the moment you turn your back. But in the end, they will know you as what you are: a king. *Our* king."

He looked at Jacaerys again, truly looked at him. He saw himself in the sharp angles of his face, in the restless set of his jaw, in the stubborn fire that burned behind his eyes. Jace was not of his blood, but he was his son.

"You were never a bastard to me," Daemon said at last. "And you were never just a Velaryon. You are my son, Jacaerys. Just as Baela is my daughter. That is the truth of it, and damn anyone who would deny it."

The words settled between them, heavier than the wine in their cups. Daemon had never been a man for grand speeches of love, never one to say the things that rested beneath his ribs, but tonight was different.

He leaned back, exhaling sharply. His mind drifted to another boy, another time. Viserys, sitting on the Iron Throne for the first time. Young, wide-eyed, full of dreams and the weight of duty. He had wanted to be good. He had wanted to rule well. And though Viserys had been blind in the end, though he had faltered and failed, Daemon could not forget the brother he had once known.

Viserys had believed in peace once, in trust, in a world that did not exist. But Jace… Jace would not be so blind. He was too much like Rhaenyra to be fooled.

"My brother once sat where you will sit," he said at last, voice rougher now. "He was a fool in many ways, but not at the start. At the start, he wanted to be good. And he tried, in his own way. That is the weight of the crown. It bends men, warps them, but you are strong. You will bear it well, better than he did."

He downed the rest of his wine in one swift motion, as if to wash away the ghosts.

"You will be remembered, Jace," he said, his voice steady again. "Not as a Velaryon. Not as a bastard. But as a Targaryen King. And I will make sure of it."

He thought of Viserys again.

He had not been ready.

But Rhaenyra was.

starter for @the-lord-confessor

“The truth, that held behind close doors,”

It was quite the let night at Red Keep, as Jacaerys had been doing some paperwork, and reading scrolls. His head started to hurt from the stuff he was reading, as it seemed like all the words were repeating all over again.

He sighed as he got up, and he knew how Daemon had invited him to his chambers a while back, but he just hadn’t had time to go. He gathered everything on his desk cleaning it up, and putting it into a neat pile.

He pushed himself up as he headed towards the door. His head ran with questions he could ask Daemon, knowing the prince had looked up to for so long. Jacaerys walked through the quiet corridors, hearing his younger siblings not sleeping, but giggling with another playing.

He turned the corner as he came right across Daemon’s chambers as he gave a gently knock and he heard a come in.

Jacaerys walked in, as he gave his head a small tilt giving him a small respectful greeting.

He watched as he sat in front of Daemon… it shouldn’t have been this awkward but it was.

He fiddled with his ring… something he use to do with his mother’s hand… as he started to speak. “Father… I am curious about things about ruling…” he started as he looked up at Daemon who had across him with his casual smirk.

“Do you think… I can rule as great as my mother…will? or will just fall behind the shadows of the kings and queen before me…?”

Daemon studied the boy before him, the firelight carving sharp angles into his face. Jacaerys looked so much like Rhaenyra—the same stubborn set of his chin, the same quiet fire burning behind his eyes. But where Rhaenyra’s will was a forge, shaping the world to her desires, Jacaerys was still untempered steel. His fingers toyed restlessly with his ring, his shoulders curled inward ever so slightly. A boy weighed down by a crown he did not yet wear.

"Your mother will be a great queen." Daemon did not say if. There was no if. Rhaenyra was fire and steel. She would rule with her iron fist and disarming smile. But Jacaerys was not her. That was the point.

"Every ruler’s strength is another’s weakness," Daemon continued. "And every ruler’s weakness is another’s strength. You will face trials she never did. And you will overcome them in ways she never could."

Jacaerys’ lips parted as if to respond, but he hesitated. Daemon caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes, the weight of history pressing down upon him; the kings before, the queens yet to come, their legacies stretching behind him like a road paved in blood.

"You think too much of ghosts," Daemon said, voice quieter now, words curling like the smoke of the dying embers. "Of the ones who came before, of the ones who will come after. But what are shadows, if not proof that you stand in the light?" He tilted his head, smirking faintly. "You will not be your mother. You will not be Viserys, or Maegor, or Jaehaerys before him. You will be Jacaerys Velaryon. And that will be enough." He let the words settle, let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a bowstring. Then, softer, knowing too well the weight of expectation pressed against the throat like a blade, he added,