Chapter Text
Jacaerys I
Jacaerys Velaryon knew he was a bastard. He had harboured a suspicion for a while. Between subtle jokes from Aegon accompanied by his shit-eating grin to Ser Harwin Strong’s closeness with his mother, it was difficult not to take note. And then there was his appearance. Distinctly non-Valyrian and lacking all traces of his Velaryon relatives. Both he and Lucerys had brown curls, snub noses, brown eyes, and pale skin. The fact they’d not been declared bastards before the realm upon birth was a miracle. A blessed consequence of their grandsire’s love for their mother and the Princess Rhaenys’ Baratheon heritage and colouring.
The only one not willing to play along with the charade was the Queen Alicent. She was pointed and vicious with her barbs, shunning his brother and himself wherever she could. Luke feared her, and Jace found it hard to disagree with that assessment. Sometimes she would join the king when he came to watch them train above the training grounds on the parapet. Her stony gaze penetrating through his skin and down to the bone, laying him bare. Who are you? She spat with a single look. A bastard boy masquerading as a prince. Every time he got a hit in on her sons, he knew she scowled. A bastard allowed to mark a prince. To the queen, it was unconscionable.
Luckily for Her Grace, Ser Criston Cole was in apparent agreement. The boys rarely were allowed to fight against one another in practice duels. Instead, Ser Criston heaped attention upon Prince Aegon and Aemond, while Jace was left with scraps to help Luke improve his piss-poor fighting skills.
Today was one such training session. His uncles’ forms were being corrected by their instructor, widening their stances and perfecting their thrusts. Jace and Luke were ignored, hacking away at the straw dummies until Ser Criston felt generous enough to come over and berate them for their technique and knock them and their wooden swords into the sand, Aegon snickering in the background. Luke was still young enough to believe all he need do was apply himself and try harder. Then mayhaps Ser Criston would throw a kind word his way as a dog would receive a bone. Sweet, earnest Luke, who always saw the best in others, who tried and tried. Jace had not the heart to tell his little brother that this was nothing either of them could remedy or relieve. Luke still believed Ser Laenor Velaryon their true sire. Jace would not be the one to assuage him of that notion.
“Keep your knees bent, Prince Aegon, or when I do this-“ Criston shouldered Aegon, tipping him over. Jace’s uncle lost his balance and went sprawling, arse first, into the sand of the training yard “-you’ll do that,” the Kingsguard explained, moving to help Aegon rise.
The prince knocked his hand away, snapping insults at Aemond, who was barely containing a grin. Jace maintained a neutral expression, turning back to Luke merrily swinging at one of the straw targets with gusto. Utterly oblivious.
His form was atrocious. He swung with stiff, unbending movements that lacked any semblance of the fluidity needed in combat, driving into the straw with the entire weight of his little body. Jace moved to correct it before Ser Criston saw and turned his ire upon them. Unfortunately, it was too late.
“Jacaerys!” the Kingsguard shouted, advancing upon them as Jace attempted to fix his brother’s grip. “Do you find my instruction to be lacking?” he asked, looming over them both. His dark hair gleamed in the midday light. Jace dropped his hands from his brother’s shoulder, where he had been guiding him.
“No, Ser.”
Ser Criston’s gaze was as cold as the queen’s when he peered at them. “Then why are you distracting Lucerys?”
Jace averted his gaze from the knight, focusing on the sand coating the tip of his brown leather boot. He was a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror, second in line to The Iron Throne. A future king of The Seven Kingdoms. And yet.
“I…” Jace wet his lips, eyes darting up and down. “I only sought to aid my brother, Ser.” Jace winced at how small his voice had become, thin and warbling. “You were busy with mine uncles and-“
“-and so you thought it your duty to pass your own mistakes on to Lucerys.” The tone was light, but a mocking cruelty coloured each word.
He did not give Jace a chance to respond, grabbing him by the scruff of his training doublet with one firm hand and pushing him into the centre of the courtyard.
“I suppose you would be willing to display this ability you purport to possess? You shall show us all this newfound skill.” Ser Criston raised his own wooden weapon, knees bent and poised to strike.
“Sword up.”
Jace barely had time to react, Cole coming at him faster than he could process. He had a split second to block the sword as it came hurtling down. He could feel his bones rattling in his body, radiating from his arms down to his toes as their swords met with the crack of wood on wood. It echoed around the courtyard. The sound bounced off the pale stone walls of The Red Keep; the din joined by the calling and claps of his enthusiastic relatives, excited by the lesson’s diversion. He was starting to retreat when Cole disarmed him in one clean motion before sending him reeling into the ground with a quick kick.
Jace squinted up at the clouded sky, dazed not just by the sun’s rays in his eyes. Somewhere to his left there was a chorus of “oooh”s as his uncles and brother reacted to his hasty defeat. This would be the subject of japes for the next week. He grunted as Cole threw his practice sword into his stomach, scoffing.
“Let that be a lesson to you, boy, if you think you teach your brother anything of worth.”
Jace heard his uncles’ chuckles. Aemond was probably enjoying this greatly. It was rare he was not the centre of one of Aegon’s japes and pranks. It must be a novel sensation.
When he got up, clutching his sword to his chest, Luke gave him a sympathetic pack on the back, smiling up at him. “Cheer up, Jace, you will best him one day.”
Aye, Jace thought bitterly. Mayhaps when he is of an age with old Lord Beesbury. He did not say that aloud and chose merely to return Luke’s sunny expression.
It was Aegon who finally convinced Ser Criston to call an end to the lesson, citing a need to attend daily prayers with the queen. Aemond looked at his brother incredulously but seemed unwilling to rat on him. Aegon had enough low cunning for Jace to believe there was a prayer service being attended by the queen, but he doubted the older boy held any intention of going himself. Aemond might. He was by far the most devout of the Valyrian children, praying before each meal began along with his mother and siblings. But whilst his brothers and sister might do so out of obligation, there was a genuine piety to be found in Aemond Targaryen.
Thankfully, Ser Criston accepted the lie with a nod. Though what he would say when Aegon was absent from The Sept with his mother was another thing. Cole was the queen’s sworn protector, after all. Aegon did not think that far ahead, like as not. When did he ever? Low cunning.
Luke was eager to leave, too. He had become especially clingy to their mother since she announced her pregnancy a few months previous. Jace could not imagine his own younger self being so worried about the birth of Luke. Being supplanted as the youngest child would be distressing, he supposed. Jace could barely string together two sentences when Luke was born, too young to pay the changing of position within his small familial unit much note.
The boys put their weapons back upon the rack, aside from Aegon who immediately quit the yard with nary a backwards glance. To harass some poor washer woman or scullery maid more than like. Luke was a quick second - tearing off into a run towards their apartments. Aemond hesitated for a few seconds, dark eyes darting from Criston to Jace to the door in the direction of The Sept, weight shifting from one foot to the other. Ser Criston brought his indecision to a halt.
“I shall accompany you to The Sept, my prince,” Cole called, wiping his face with a rag and water then strapping his steel sword back to his side. Aemond brightened, nodding, and clasping his hands behind his back as the two of them departed the yard side-by-side, his nephew quite forgotten.
Jacaerys Velaryon found himself suddenly alone. He considered briefly seeking either of his fathers. Ser Harwin was his mother’s constant shadow and Ser Laenor would likely be with that knight he was so fond of, Ser Qarl Correy of Spicetown. It would do no good to be seen with the Captain of The City Watch around The Keep and he was too busy to spare time to spar with a green boy. Whilst Laenor was an experienced veteran and swordsman, Jace was loath to take his father away from his one source of happiness. In recent years, Laenor Velaryon had adopted an abiding melancholic demeanour unless addled by wine or in his friend’s company.
Jacaerys picked up one of the practice swords once again, feeling its wooden weight in his palm before gripping it in both hands and going through the motions of his basic drills. These were the ones that formed the foundation of his lessons with Cole. Lower Strikes, Four Guards, Cross Strikes and so on. The building blocks of swordplay. Slow and precise, then fast and fluent, all the while monitoring his stance and form.
The sword arced correctly and with the right force behind the swing, but his right knee locked and buckled. His hips faced his imaginary opponent through a movement, crouched and ready, but then he let his arms drop and brought the sword down sloppily. After a third botched attempt at swift Cross Strikes, he turned to the nearest unfortunate pell and started hacking at the hide covered stake with wild, careless strokes. He flung it at the straw man Luke had focused on earlier with a huff. It bounced off its thinly clothed middle with a dull thud and landed flat in the sand. Gods, what was the point? Every attempt was a failure. All he heard was Cole in the back of his mind, berating his swordplay.
He rubbed roughly at his eyes, sand stinging at his vision, no doubt. Ridiculous. He was a prince of the realm and here he stood, making war on straw enemies and wooden foes; bemoaning his lack of skill without ever truly attempting to remedy it. He shook his head, clearing the moisture gathering in his eyes. It would not do.
Putting back the practice sword on the large rack pressed against the wooden wall in the balcony’s shade, Jace tried to quell his disquieting thoughts. He hung it on the rack with short, angry movements, revelling in the bashing of weapons as the loud, grating noise matched the storm in his mind.
“Are you well, my prince?” A voice asked. A voice Jace recognised.
“I am well, Ser Harwin,” Jace replied, treating the practice weapons with more care than previously. The knight took off his helm, black scales with a nasal guard bisecting its centre, and tucked it under the crook of his arm. His dark brown curls were so like Luke’s own. Jace avoided Ser Harwin’s searching look.
“Cole drills you and the other princes strictly, I hear.”
Jace frowned, finished replacing the wooden sword. He was at a loss for what to do with his hands. “Ser Criston trains us well, I think.”
Harwin quirked a brow, a small smirk upon his lips. “You ‘think’?”
When Jace did not answer. Harwin’s teasing look fell away, replaced with something safer. Softer. He approached, the sound of his armour clanking loud in the quiet air. He reached forward a dark gloved hand as if to clasp Jace’s shoulder or pull him into an embrace, but a quick scan of their surroundings and he had aborted the motion, hand hovering for a moment between them. It was not safe. Not here. Their eyes met - brown on brown. The same brown. Harwin cleared his throat, dropping the offending appendage to his side and clasping his helm with both hands.
“I will escort you back to your mother’s apartments, my prince.”
Jace said nothing, leading the way. When Harwin fell into step beside him, the captain put his helmet back on. The walk from the training yard to Maegor’s Holdfast was mercifully short, but Jace could feel the eyes of every noble and servant on them as the Princess of Dragonstone’s eldest son and Captain of The City Watch walked in lockstep next to one another. Tongues would wag.
Whatever closeness between his mother and Ser Harwin may be allowed in her private apartments, that same familiarity was not permitted past the doors of her wing of Maegor’s. If word reached back to the Princess Rhaenyra, there would be words had betwixt mother and son. Especially as Rhaenyra’s third pregnancy drew closer to completion.
Privately, Jace hoped the newest babe would resemble Luke and himself, with dark hair. It might give their detractors less ammunition. Even better if the child had the purple eyes of their many forbearers. Luke simply wanted another brother, presumably so he could have someone he could boss around. It was the one salve on the wound that no longer being the youngest sibling had inflicted.
As they entered the Princess of Dragonstone’s apartments, the servants and guards smiled and gave the young prince small bows and curtsies. It was night and day compared to his treatment by The Red Keep’s servants at large. His mother’s household was handpicked by his father Laenor and his wife Rhaenyra to maximise their comforts, security, and privacy. Some were taken from Jace’s grandsire Lord Corlys Velaryon’s household - like Ser Qarl. Others were lifelong servants of Rhaenyra or children from noble houses sworn to Dragonstone. Lady Elinda Massey, who knelt at Princess Rhaenyra’s side braiding her long silver hair, was one such bannerman’s daughter.
His mother reclined on her chaise, stomach round, and bare feet propped upon pillows. She oft complained of the swelling as the pregnancy progressed and new shoes were made to accommodate the increased size. Jace found that odd. Why should her feet be affected if the babe was housed inside her belly? There were many aspects of pregnancy that eluded him, but what he’d learnt in recent months left him relieved he was born a boy and not a girl.
Luke played with two toy dragons at the legs of the divan, regaling the women with the plot of his current scene aloud in a high, excited voice. When his mother saw Jace and Harwin at the door to the solar, she smiled and waved him over. At the door, Lord Commander Westerling and Ser Harwin exchanged places with a few words between them. His mother thanked Commander Westerling as he departed with a bow and a wink for Jace.
“Lady Elinda,” Rhaenyra turned to her handmaid, “you are free for the rest of the day and may return come nightfall.”
“If there is aught else in the meantime, Princess, send for me.” Lady Elinda dipped into a curtsey, and Rhaenyra planted a kiss on her cheek before the young handmaid followed the Lord Commander out of the room. Elinda was the youngest of Rhaenyra’s ladies, but had been a favourite amongst them for as long as Jace could recall.
His mother turned her deep purple eyes upon him and wrapped him in a hug, kissing his temple thrice and inquiring after his day. Jace tried to make it seem more exciting and enjoyable than it was. He need not worry his mother more. He heard once that undue stress could damage the babe, and with how she raved on returning from Small Council meetings, she had enough of that to harm a legion of unborn infants.
“And your lesson with Ser Criston?” she asked, stroking his hair with her bare, swollen fingers as he sat on the floor near her head.
Jace swallowed. “It went well, Mother.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, glancing up at Ser Harwin. “Luke tells me you remained after to train alone.”
“I did.” He looked to where Luke was bashing the two pretend dragons together, making descriptive noises with his small mouth.
They were a gift on their respective name days from the king, modelled on their then hatchlings, Vermax and Arrax. Luke’s was slightly smaller as they were both commissioned in the same year, and the difference in size between their future mounts was still obvious even now, two years on.
When he met his mother’s eyes again, he saw that perpetually patient expression. One that promised understanding and acceptance, no matter what he did or said. Love. It was so difficult to lie to her, even white lies - small as a mouse and meant to shield her from further turmoil. He settled on a small shrug.
“I wish to be as talented as Ser Criston one day.”
“Mayhaps you shall wield such prowess with more care,” Ser Harwin said with a derisive snort from his position by the closed door.
Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with a steely warning to her sworn shield, before fixing her face with an encouraging smile. “You will prove yourself worthy of Blackfyre or Dark Sister one day, I am sure, sweetling.” She stroked his cheek, her skin comforting and warm.
Valyrian Steel, now there was a grand prize to aspire towards. Jace returned her hopeful look with one of his own, even if it felt false.
On the floor Luke made the larger wooden beast sweep up in a dramatic arc, bashing the smaller dragon from his hands and up, imitating a ferocious dragon’s roar with his own unbroken voice. The toy landed beside Ser Harwin’s feet with a crack not dissimilar to the sounds of clashing practice swords. The painted figurine broke on impact with the stone floor, splintering in two.
There was a moment where the four of them merely looked upon the broken remains of the shattered dragon. Its pearlescent head had come away from the white and chipped gold of its body. It was hewn from a light wood now exposed on the inside, and some of the pale splinters scattered around it like driftwood on a sea of dark and uneven stone. There was a sniff, and then Luke burst into wailing tears.
Ser Harwin bent to scoop up the split wood, gathering bits in his hands. The commander attempted to slot the two pieces back together haphazardly. He succeeded only in slotting the head on backwards. He tried to wave it at Luke, crouching to be at the bawling boy’s eye level. The young prince took one horrified look at the poorly affixed neck and started to cry in earnest.
Rhaenyra tried to spring into action, but her current condition prevented quick movement. Instead, she struggled into a sitting position, pushing against her cushions in a manner undignified for a Princess of The Seven Kingdoms. She reached down to gather Luke to her, mumbling comforts into the shell of his ear. The swell of her stomach made it awkward, which upset Luke further as his little body heaved great sobs against his mother.
Jace caught Harwin’s eye. The man’s eyebrows were drawn in worry, clutching the broken toy uselessly in his gloved hands. His helmet was still over his head. He did not know how to comfort Luke. Jace did.
With the sigh of a long-suffering elder sibling, Jace rubbed Luke’s back in small circles as he had seen his mother and father do before, though his own movements were stilted and a bit awkward. Luke curled further into Rhaenyra’s embrace.
“It’s all right, Luke,” he said, trying to emulate the soothing tones of their mother. “You may take mine own dragon toy and we will repair your one as well.”
“Are you sure?” Luke asked, eyes reddened and filled with more unshed tears.
Jace attempted an air of nonchalance. “I’m far too old for such things as it is.” Aegon would tease him mercilessly if he found out he still played such games with Luke. The elder boy probably threw away his own little Sunfyre years before, for Jace could never recall him with one.
It still rankled to give up his miniature Vermax. He had clutched it to him a few years ago, as the king held him high upon The Iron Throne. He watched as Viserys dealt with each petitioner, relying on his Hand Lord Lyonel Strong for advice. Jace, perched on the king’s knee, remained quiet, content to listen and learn, wooden Vermax pressed close to his chest. At the end, when the last petitioner had been dismissed from the throne room, before Princess Rhaenyra took him back for his evening meal, Viserys told him how he would one day sit there, dispensing The King’s Justice. High above them all.
‘This uncomfortable seat shall be yours one day, my boy.’
It had all seemed daunting, but his mother assured him afterwards in gentle tones that there would be years to prepare him for such responsibilities.
He looked down at the toy of Vermax Luke had already been playing with without his permission and reminded himself of that memory as he began to curse his kindness. A king should be compassionate.
With her free hand, Rhaenyra cupped Jace’s face, rubbing a thumb over the soft skin. Tension melted from his body at her evident approval. His mother was the sun, and he bent always towards her praise.
“Thank you,” she mouthed as Luke returned to burying his face in the fine blue silk of her gown.
The door to the room banged open, revealing Ser Laenor Velaryon swaying in the early evening light, a dopey smile plastered on his fine features. Partially holding him up was Ser Qarl. The young knight at least had the decency to seem embarrassed at the state they were in. Jace could smell the familiar hippocras wafting across the room, his father’s drink of choice. Rising to his feet, Ser Harwin winced, moving to help The Heir to Driftmark towards a seat.
“I’m quite capable, Ser,” Laenor said with a giggle, collapsing into an armchair across from his wife and youngest son.
Ser Qarl joined Ser Harwin as he went to stand by the door. Grimacing, he did not sway. Either the man held his drink better, or Laenor was knocking back two cups for every one his companion drank. Quietly, Jace prayed it was the former.
“I see you had an enjoyable morning, husband.” Laenor did not hear or did not note his wife’s icy tones. Or he could simply not bring himself to care.
“A troop of mummers from Myr are performing in the city, Rhaenyra,” He grinned. “One of them could swallow a sword whole. Whole! Imagine that.”
Luke turned quickly; previous upset clearly forgotten. “Could you bring us next time, Father?”
“Of course, my boy,” slurred over Rhaenyra’s, “Absolutely not.”
Luke ran into their father’s lap, a litany of thanks pouring from his lips, mood lifted significantly. Laenor hoisted the boy into his arms with ease, meeting Rhaenyra’s eyes. His wife was obviously about to shut the entire affair down. Her small mouth opened to begin her protest, but Laenor got there first this time.
“They’d be perfectly safe with Ser Qarl and myself, Nyra.” Rhaenyra was about to retort but stopped herself. Their parents never quarrelled in front of Luke and himself. She sighed, smoothing a hand over her bump.
“We shall discuss this after our meal. Alone.”
After the family meal, they packed Luke and Jace off to their evening lessons so the adults could exchange words. High Valyrian and arithmetic. Maester Geradys taught High Valyrian in his chambers. In the maester’s cosy and dark room, the Velaryon and Hightower children learned the language of their ancestors together.
These lessons were the one area in which the Velaryon children had a clear advantage. Their parents spoke High Valyrian when reading stories, singing lullabies, and even argued in it to keep their private matters from The Red Keep. Out of the Hightower brood, Aemond was the best and most dedicated, followed by Helaena or Daeron, which left Aegon at dead last. He knew enough to command Sunfyre and, as he said himself, had no interest in wasting time learning an almost dead language.
When asked to practice with a partner, everyone bitterly regretted Daeron’s absence. They once had a neat system. Daeron with Aegon, Helaena with Aemond, and himself with Luke. The balance had been upset with his milk-brother’s fostering in Oldtown a few months previous. Aegon, not wanting to be with his siblings (“The Insane and The Insufferable”) or the maester (“Boring Old Fuck”), pushed Jace aside and took Luke with a toothy smile. Presumably because the younger boy’s grasp of the language was only marginally better than his own.
More oft than not, Jace was set to practice with the maester. Today was not one such day.
“Where are the other princes?” Geradys asked with a frown, checking behind the three royal children before him, as if Aegon and Aemond were crouched at Luke’s back or hidden beneath Helaena’s skirt. Jace shrugged, while Luke mumbled something about prayers.
Moving past the maester, Helaena whispered, “Silken streets and soaring scales.” She took a seat nearest the hearth, the fire dying within.
Geradys looked at the princes for a translation. Jace had no answer. Much of what Helaena said was incomprehensible. Even to her own kin. More oft than not, she seemed completely lost in her own world. The common agreement amongst denizens of The Keep was that the young princess was simple-minded and dim-witted. Jace, unfortunately, found it rather difficult to disagree and knew for a fact half of such rumours came from Aegon’s own vicious tongue.
Geradys sighed, ushering Jace and Luke into the room. High Valyrian was one of his favourite lessons, partly because of the maester’s rooms. Books and scrolls littered every surface on a thousand different subjects, from Lonely Light to Asshai by The Shadow. The room he taught in lacked a window and candle and firelight lit the room with flickering flames. Once Aegon had bemoaned about the lack of natural light muddling his senses. Geradys replied that the candlelight and casual setting was to encourage them to see the language as something intrinsic and approachable. Something to be spoken over dinner rather than a strict and stuffy discipline.
Jace adored it. Intimate and relaxed, they reminded him of bedtime tales from his parents, and late-night discussions between them in the family’s solar as he drifted off in one of their laps after a long day.
The lesson began with Geradys handing them each wax tablets and stylos on boards with a short candle at the top of the board flickering merrily. The three of them shared a cushion sofa across from the master, their writing equipment resting on their bony knees. Geradys called out instruction in High Valyrian as they scratched notes into the wax with their metal stylos.
Luke kept misspelling words. Frowning, he dipped the flat end of the stylus into his candle’s flame atop the board and rubbed out the errors by melting the wax smooth and starting the word over. By the time Geradys finished retelling the legend of Lann the Clever’s victory over the Casterlys, stopping to translate and spell out any new or tricky verbs or vocabulary, Jace’s board was covered in white wax flakes and his fingers were cramped. He successfully filled four tablets whilst Helaena and Luke only managed two. Geradys looked over their work, nodding and pointing to mistakes without the judgement of certain other teachers.
“Prince Lucerys, your verb conjugation needs improvement.” Luke flushed. “You shall partner with me for the oral section of this lesson. We can go over the differences between Present Perfect versus Continuous in greater detail.” To the boy’s credit, he avoided being caught rolling his eyes.
Of course, that meant-
“Prince Jacaerys and Princess Helaena, you may practise with one another whilst I attend the young prince.”
Helaena barely seemed to notice; pale purple eyes locked on the candle-flame. She passed her fingers through it, mouth moving to form words without sound. Jace suppressed a shudder. He scooted next to his aunt, watching her as a fly might a spider before it bit. Mayhaps she would. Aegon proclaimed his younger sister a madwoman in the making to all who cared to listen. Few did, but still.
He drew a large breath in the manner of all young children trying to find the will to say something.
“I read recently that silkworms are not worms at all, but are rather caterpillars.” Helaena said, her voice airy and light. “It is rather fascinating.” Jace blinked.
Geradys called a warning, “In High Valyrian, princess.”
“Apologies, Maester,” Helaena murmured, turning those enormous eyes on Jace. Apparently, he was expected to respond.
“Are- Are they called worms in Valyrian?” He tried.
“No, they are called silk flies,” she answered with a tilt of her head. Her inflection was a mite messy, but the language flowed easily from her lips. “I think it quite interesting how Westerosi and Valyrian differ in so many respects.” Loose pale curls tumbled over her thin shoulder as she cocked her head at him. “What do you think?”
Jace searched his mind for something learned and intelligent to respond with, but could only muster, “Quite… Interesting—that is… Quite interesting.” Seven help him. They lapsed into silence once more, Jace pulling at the loose thread on his cuff.
This was perhaps the most they had ever spoken to one another. They shared other lessons, but those tutors discouraged the children from speaking amongst themselves. Their respective immediate families seldom dined together unless the king willed it, and even then, Helaena was always seated at her mother’s side. The only other way they might speak would be if Helaena claimed a dragon or hatched an egg. Her own grew cold in the cradle, and she seemed uninterested in venturing into The Dragonpit to bond with one of the grown dragons lacking a rider. It was perplexing. Whilst Aemond clearly saw his own dragonless status as his greatest shame, Helaena seemed totally unphased.
Helaena turned from him without warning and reached into the folds of her dress, before withdrawing something and holding it between cupped hands. “Would you like to see one?” she asked, still in High Valyrian. They sat closer to one another than Jace could ever remember being to his aunt. He could see each individual freckle peppering her thin nose, and the intensity in her gaze.
Jace barely had time to respond before his aunt removed the top of her hand, revealing a small, wriggling worm on it. Revulsion shot through him like an arrow at the sight of the squirming white thing. Memories of rotted meat feasted upon by pale, squelching maggots who gorged themselves on foetid food until they burst into buzzing flies. He couldn’t help it. He gave a disgusted gag as he withdrew to the edge of the sofa, almost toppling off it in his haste.
“Is everything well, my prince?” Geradys asked, bushy salt and pepper eyebrows drawn in concern.
Helaena drew the little thing into her body, cupping her hands around it once more as if afraid someone would take it from her. He tried not to look at her as he responded with a shake of his head. He would not tell on his aunt, who had gone back to muttering under her breath, facing the fire as she had in the beginning. Geradys turned back to his bored little brother, scolding him for poor pronunciation. Helaena carefully deposited the writhing thing back into her skirts, shoulders hunched. Jace felt rather like he kicked a puppy.
Her back was to him, and he couldn’t say anything without drawing the maester’s attention once more. Gingerly, Jace reached out to touch her arm as he would with Luke after playing too rough or saying something spiteful in anger.
“I apologi-“
Helaena snatched her arm away with a gasp, leaning from his touch as if it burned. He withdrew his hand, embarrassed at his lack of tact.
Young ladies were delicate creatures to be treated with the utmost respect. The songs and stories were all in agreement - positively adamant, in fact; familiar touches remained between close family and dear friends. It was clear Helaena did not consider him as either.
“If Your Graces cannot remain civil with one another without constant supervision, I see no way to continue this lesson today,” Geradys snapped, each word laced with displeasure. Luke looked positively perplexed, swinging his curly head from Jace and Helaena to Geradys, then back. “Dismissed.” Geradys never shouted, but the palpable disappointment that followed Jace from that cosy room was worse.
Helaena gave Jace and Luke a wide berth, practically sprinting from the room without a word of farewell to them or their instructor. Geradys was too annoyed to note it, but Jace did. And strangely, it stung.
He watched the princess go, her silver-gold hair streaming behind her like a cloak in the wind as she half ran towards her family’s rooms. He watched her a moment as the last edge of her dark green dress disappeared around the corner and Helaena Targaryen was out of sight. His stomach turned, and he wondered if he ate something off during the meal he shared with his own family earlier, or if this was the bitterness of regret.
Jace took off towards his own quarters, the shadows in Maegor’s Holdfast long in the dusk air of the corridors. He needed to find his rooms and crawl under his blankets and pretend today never happened. He made a fool of himself twice and was not keen to add a third embarrassment to his miserable tally.
Luke’s smaller legs pumped hard to keep pace despite a recent growth spurt. He caught up, making two strides for every one of Jace’s. “What did you do?” he asked, panting slightly.
Jace pulled up short, head shaking as he rubbed at his forehead. A chill draught gust down the long stone corridor, causing some of the recently lit torches to gutter for a moment.
“I do not know.”