Chapter Text
o0o0o0o0o0o
They win. But at what cost.
Jacaerys’s heart constricts as the sharp edges of the Red keep cut through the horizon. The Lads have joined his company flanked by Cregan Stark’s men, the black army making its final advance to take back King’s Landing.
Or what will be left of it.
He can see the city gates slowly open in the distance, Lord Corlys Velaryon having received his message after his uncle Aegon’s timely death. The march toward the city feels more like a death procession than a final victory lap.
They enter the city and are welcomed by cheers, heralds that the war is finally over. The cheers are met by loud laughs and shouts of the northern young men that descended to the south in quest for glory and the muted vindication of the Riverlands sons mourning their home set ablaze by the green fury of the fallen, one eyed rogue prince.
Jacaerys only sees ghosts, fleeting memories of the childhood he spent in this now ravaged city.
His grief echoes in the blank, haunted stares of King’s Landing’s people who survived two years of Targaryen madness.
His horse carries him forward and he thinks he can hear Luke’s laugh, his real father’s commands booming through the air when they were training in the courtyard, his mother’s tired sighs as she cradled Joffrey’s cooing form, Aegon’s and Aemond’s snickers after another of Aegon’s pranks. Vermax’s roar when he first bonded with him.
They’re all gone now.
He’s the only one left. The weight of his loss crushes his shoulders and he bends his head, willing away tears he has no use for. Instead he inhales a breath and does the only thing left for him to do. Move forward. Claim his birthright.
o0o0o0o0o0o
The tides are receding. The dragon slumbers into its long night. Black spills into green. The screaming fog will last with no light.
Helaena mutters the words ricocheting in her mind like a small tambourine. She repeats them like a mantra, so her thoughts can be nudged out of this current existence, can take her away so she doesn’t unravel as the servants scrub her skin raw, washing away the filth and stench of death that clung to her since she was locked in the black cells after Raehnyra captured King’s Landing, her wretched home.
Her mother is being prepared as well, to be given one last dignity before meeting their fate. She knows Aegon’s dead. Whispers of poison brush against her thoughts and the cunning grin of Larys Strong paints into her mind.
Queen Alicent comes to her room, her cell, wearing green, forever at war. The dowager queen looks as if having lived through a century of ignominy and perhaps she did. Losing son after son tends to render one’s existence meaningless and empty. Helaena has been emptied out like a gutted fish with every child lost. Only Jaehaera remains, a fragile sweetling of seven with haunted eyes and leaden silence, mirrors to her stolen innocence. Helaena feels her twenty and one years in her very bones, as if a lifetime has been lived and another might be given.
They are escorted to the small council room and Helaena clings to her daughter’s hand in hers, sole remaining tether to this black world, the only reason she has not yet let herself fall from the highest wall of the Red Keep.
Her dark green dress covers her from neck to toe and is a heavy reassuring presence on her skin, her silver hair covered by a dark veil and tied together into a bun akin to a septa’s.
Helaena prays for the halls of Oldtown, the quiet, recluse life of a septa, her daughter tucked away from a realm steeped in blood and the ruptured madness of rulers and their ambitious vassals.
She can feel the rumblings in the castle and the city. Banners of wolves, trouts, and falcons paint the walls of the courtyard grey and blue. Helaena closes her other hand into a fist so to push away the loud shouts of strange men invading her childhood home, her world being violated again.
The whispers come to her once more, unbidden.
The tides are receding.
The dragon slumbers into its long night.
Black spills into green.
The screaming fog will last with no light.
o0o0o0o0o0o
“You were not lying, Lord Corlys. King’s Landing has not been spared by the war”. Lord Cregan Stark eyes the aging Velaryon head, cutting the tense silence among the lords gathered around Jacaerys.
“Precisely the reason why peace is not only inevitable, but our only chance to ensure more than mere survival.”
“Is that you why you betrayed my mother and bent the knee to the Greens?” Jacaerys turns hard eyes toward the person he used to call grandfather, unable to swallow the resentment chafing his throat.
Heavy silence fills the room, all eyes on Corlys Velaryon who lets out a despondent sigh before meeting Jacaerys’s eyes.
“I’ve sacrificed my fair share to your mother and her cause, my Lord. I am well aware your forgiveness is not within my reach. All l seek is peace, for what’s left of my family, for the people, for the realm. If my life must be the price for it, I will gladly pay it.”
“So should every turn-cloak who sided against our Prince Jacaerys. Lannister, Hightower, Baratheon” Lord Cregan hisses. “All these traitors should be put to the sword”
“Then you shall spark another war and years of tearing this country apart.” Lord Corlys Velaryon answers evenly. “We’ve already sent envoys to Casterly Rock, Oldtown and Storm's End in order to negotiate peace. The Widows all accepted the terms.” Lord Corlys turns to Archmaester Munkun who presents to Jacaerys the written acquiescence of the three houses.
“Attacking the former partisans of your deceased uncle Aegon would be considered as perjury and a breach of the King's Peace.” he says to Jacaerys.
“The country is exhausted, my Prince,” Lord Torrhen Manderly adds his voice to Lord Corlys. “There has been enough bloodshed.”
Jacaerys looks around the table. The realm was on its knees indeed, his last advance to King’s Landing had shown him the ravages done to the lands and towns across the continent. And he was tired, oh so tired. As exhausted as the torn apart home he used to know.
He nods. “I will not be the instigator of more suffering, my Lord. I am well aware that half the realm took arms against my mother’s cause. Stitching the country back together is my paramount duty.”
The relief that follows his words is almost tangible, as if a weight had been lifted. Jacaerys sees Lord Corlys, Lord Torrhen and the Archmaester exchange glances and he raises a brow, realization dawning on him.
“And from what I can surmise, your lordships might have already thought of acceptable paths toward peace”
Lord Cregan Starks sneers and Lord Torrhen is the first to speak. “Indeed my Prince. As you have just wisely said, half the realm rallied their banners to your uncle. Numerous lives were sacrificed by these proud, ancient houses to that cause. As Queen Rhaenyra’s heir, you are next in line and cannot reign over half a realm.”
“What do you propose then?’ Lord Cregan asks.
“An alliance of convenience.” Lord Corlys replies. “For your younger brother, Prince Aegon, to be wed to the last remaining child of Alicent Hightower”
“Helaena?” Jacaerys lets out in a stunned whisper. “She is alive?”
“Alive and well, Your Grace,” Lord Corlys nods, his lips pinched in a thin line before adding, “as well as a mother who lost her children can be. She was imprisoned in Maegor’s Holdfast with Lady Alicent, when your mother took King’s Landing.”
Jacaerys’s eyes widen, before swallowing the bitter taste of something akin to guilt.
“She lost her second son, when the smallfolk stormed the city and your mother fled . Little Jaehaera is her only remaining child.”
“If it wasn’t for that child, Lady Helaena would have jumped to her death, poor woman,” Archmaster Mukun finishes Lord Corlys tale.
The ghost of Helaena’s timid smile flickers in Jacaerys’s mind, her big purple eyes filled with mirth staring back at him when they danced together, so long ago, another lifetime ago, a past he wants to go back to.
“The smallfolk still have love for her, Your Grace. A match with young Aegon would help tie the Targaryen line back together.” Lord Torrhen adds.
“Where is she?” He asks, willing away memories that threaten to tear at his heart.
“She has been summoned to the small council, she should be here soon with the Lady Alicent.”
Jacaerys nods, before catching the curious stare of Cregan Stark, studying him. He takes a strengthening breath and makes up his mind.
“You are indeed right my Lords. House Targaryen needs to be brought back together, just as the Realm needs to find its unity once more.” He sees Lord Corlys allow a thin smile on his lips. “However, my brother Aegon is too young to wed Lady Helaena, too young to be already used as a pawn for political gain.”
“What other match do you think is more suitable then, Your Grace?” Lord Torrhen Manderly turns to him, in expectation.
Jacaerys can pinpoint the moment Lord Corlys understands, his frown erasing the previous muted satisfaction from his features.
“I shall marry Lady Helaena. I am ten and eight, a man grown. A match with Lady Helaena would make her Queen consort, a greater sign to the houses that swore fealty to her family that I seek peace and not retaliation.”
It is a rash decision. Jacaerys knows. He can feel the narrowed and sharpened stares of Lord Corlys and Lord Cregan, both seemingly eager to remind him of older promises made and the cost of breaking them. He doesn’t even know what power took over him and made him utter the words, with no counsel from his Lords. All he knows is Helaena is alive, she survived, a piece of his childhood, a portent of past happier times.
“May I remind Your Grace, that he is still betrothed to my granddaughter, Lady Baela,” Lord Corlys’s voice is deceptively even, belying the barely concealed affront in his eyes.
Jacaerys meets his stare, steely resolve straightening his spine. “May I remind you that my fond memories of your granddaughters are the only reason you are not in a cell, my Lord. Especially after betraying my mother as you did.”
“I did not betray your mother, I was merely begging for peace, after years of fight and blood spilled. There was no victor that would have come out of this war, Your Grace. We’ve all lost too much.”
Jacaerys lets out a despondent sigh before meeting Lord Corlys eyes once more. “Well, this is the price for peace, My Lord. It is far less steep than your life, which you should be grateful for. Lady Baela is released from her betrothal and free to marry whomever she wishes and you approve of.”
Lord Corlys grits his teeth and it takes a few long heartbeats, staring at Jacaerys and seemingly seeing his certainty, before he finally concedes, bowing his head in acceptance.
“And what of our Pact?”
Jacaerys turns to Lord Cregan, “I will honor my promise. My first born daughter to your first born son.”
The northern king does not seem satisfied however. He raises his brows. What of Sara? He silently asks.
Jacaerys offers a sad smile.
Sara, his first love. The wild northern beauty that captured his heart when he went north in search of her kin’s alliance. They had said their vows in the Godswood. But words are sometimes like wind, vows akin to whispers with no root in reality. Her taste for freedom proved too strong to resign herself to ladyship. So she kissed him with all the fervor she could muster and gave him back his heart for someone else to care for. She was of the north, and it was no place for a dragon.
“Freedom revealed more suitable than the courtship of a dragon.”
Cregan frowns, then reluctantly nods. He knows his sister and her free spirit.
“It is decided then,” Lord Torrhen cuts the sullen silence. “A wedding, after your coronation. Lady Alicent can be allowed to remain until her daughter is wed before being returned to Old Town.”
“This seems like a fair compromise,” Archmaester Munkun mutters.
Jacaerys doesn’t say anything. His heart starts beating faster. She will be here soon. Her mother as well.
As if on cue, a Kings guard opens the door, “Lady Alicent Hightower, Lady Helaena Targaryen and Lady Jaehaera Targaryen.”
At once, they all stand watching them make their entrance.
Jacaerys sees Lady Alicent first, the scars of war having aged her considerably, her eyes widen when they meet his before she averts her gaze, head bowed as if stricken.
He spots Heleana then, his heart in his throat. She’s as lovely as he remembered but it’s as if life was drained out of her. Her pale skin almost washed of its light, her form slight as if underfed, and her eyes, her eyes, haunted, filled with sullen ghosts when they used to be bright and curious.
Her silver locks are hidden under a veil, and she seems like a cornered animal, a young broken septa, almost hiding behind her mother, her small daughter, Jaehaera, clinging to her like a lifeline.
What have we done? What have we become?
Once again, Jacaerys grieves all that was lost.
o0o0o0o0o0o
King Jacaerys’s coronation is set in the Sept atop Visenya Hill.
Lords and smallfolk alike gather to witness the ascent of their new King, and perhaps a hopeful ushering of better times.
Helaena stands with her mother and daughter alongside the rest of her house on the side of the procession. She watches as Jacaerys enters, in his red and black regalia, matching her as she too wore his colors.
She had barely been able to hold his gaze when she saw him for the first time, now a man, in the small council chambers as Lord Corlys and Lord Torrhen announced her and her mother’s fates.
A suitable compromise, her mother had said, voice strained with unshed tears.
She remained silent, dreams of the walls of Oldtown to be forgotten. She had picked Jaehaera then and bowed, thanking her soon to be King for his mercy.
When she lifted her eyes and met his, the shared grief almost stopped her breath. She excused herself then.
His eyes were still kind. After everything. The gentleness that he carried seemed to cling to him, despite everything. She hopes it never goes away.
The week following the small council meeting was a whirlwind of preparations for his coronation and her wedding to him to be held a fortnight after.
The tides are receding. The dragon slumbers into its long night.
Helaena takes a breath, Jaehaera by her side, always since she lost her last son, and she watches the soon to be King, her future husband, the one who in another life should have been her first.
Jacaerys is as haunted as they all are but he stands tall, walking the path to the High Septon for his proclamation, under the drawn swords of his Kingsguard, followed by the stares of his sworn vassals.
Black spills into green.
The cheers erupt as Aegon’s crown is settled atop his head and he turns to meet the people he swore to protect. Something akin to relief blooms inside Helaena, and when Jacaerys catches her eyes, they both share a small, fragile smile.
The House of the Dragon might survive them yet.
The screaming fog will last with no light.
A chill runs down her spine. Winter has started setting its cold imprint in the realm. She hopes the remaining dragons, however broken, can be enough to stop its frozen path.
o0o0o0o0o0o