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Today, Baela once again walked alone along the desolate shoreline of Driftmark where the cold sand shifting beneath her feet.
The news had come like a dull echo to her mind: that Alyn had taken Eleana Targaryen, daughter of her half-brother, Aegon III Targaryen, to his bed. And truth be told, it settled in her chest with the weight of a familiar stone. Because Baela remembered Aliandra Martell, the Dornish princess, and the hollowness that always followed her whenever she looked at Alyn Velaryon.
Now, same with every other day since she met him, nothing stirred. No anger, no hurt, just a vast, empty shore within her where feeling should have been. She could not care less.
Nor did she ever cared.
Because the very reason she lived this life, being the Lady of Driftmark and carry on in life, was because Jacaerys had demanded it of her in those final, smoke-choked days. That his voice, fierce and fading, was the only chain binding her to this world. "Live, Baela. Live even without me. Promise me." He said and she kept the promise, a ghost going through the motions.
Now her legs gave way it strenght, and she sank onto those damp, gritty sand of Driftmark where the wind whipped strands of hair across her face as she stared across the endless, grey sea. There, on the mist-shrouded horizon far away from her, lay Dragonstone. The place of thousand memories of her childhood. And of him.
All that Baela could do now was to fixed her eyes on that distant silhouette, the place where her heart had truly stayed. And within those silence, her minds wondered. What if the war had never stolen the dawn? What if she woke beside Jace in Dragonstone’s great stone bed, sunlight warming their skin? What if they flew to Driftmark not for duty or grief, but for laughter and shared meals with Lucerys and Rhaena? What if they’d grown old together, watching their children play on these very sands?
The life that should have been, all those promises and what ifs now slowly unfolded in her mind. It was warm, and bright, and impossibly real—a cruel mirror to the cold emptiness she inhabited.
Somewhere between the silent that Baela had gotten used to, a single, hot tear welled. Defying the numbness of her heart, it traced a burning path down her wind-chilled cheek. A silent testament to the world drowned in blood and smoke. To the love buried in ashes, and to the hollow life she endured only because her dead love had begged her to.
Baela now sat motionless on the sand, the cold seeping through her clothes. Her thoughts turned bitter. Why had the gods cursed her with this existence? What unforgivable sin had she committed to deserve a life stripped bare? A life without Jacaerys’s steady presence, without her fierce Kepa Daemon to shield her, without the warm, chaotic embrace of the family she’d known that was now... well, ashes. That only Rhaena remained, a solitary ember, but even she was distant, bound to Oldtown, far across the waves.
And Gods, those relentless cold politics of the realm had drowned her further. Baela knows. It had forced her into this hollow shell of a life, and forced Rhaena into hers.
But now, Baela wondered if the hands that had shaped this misery, that had shattered her world and reshaped the pieces into this bleak portrait, slept soundly in their comfortable beds. Did they ever consider the ruin they’d wrought upon her family? Did they spare a thought for the jagged, irreplaceable void Jacaerys had left within her? A wound that bled not blood, but silence and cold of void she had no intentions to escape.
Then a sigh escaped Baela, heavy as stone, carried away by the salt wind.
Alyn’s betrayal did not upset her. It never had. She had married him for one reason only: to spit defiance in Tyland Lannister’s face, to thwart his plans of shackling her to Aegon. Or perhaps, deeper still, because the thought of wedding any Targaryen who wasn’t Jacaerys felt like a desecration. For Alyn had never been kin to her heart, never more than a disposable man, useful only for the title he carried, Velaryon blood in his veins meaning nothing against the memory of Jacaerys's earnest smile.
However, had her choice been wrong? The question echoed in the emptiness. Now, her only living kin was exiled by duty to Oldtown. And Morning… her twin's beautiful, vibrant Pink Dread, the last true dragon hatched to their house… butchered. Slaughtered by the grasping Hightowers. Another light extinguished, another piece of her soul carved away and left on the cold stones of politics. All that remained was the wind, the sand, and the crushing weight of what was lost.
Baela shook her head hard now, a sharp, almost violent motion, as if she could physically dislodge the heavy thoughts clinging like barnacles to her mind. She was thinking too much, she knew. But, what else does Baela knew? Right, Jacaerys would have stopped her. Baela knew exactly how.
He would have taken her hand, his warm thumb circling gently over the knuckles where her own grip that was white and tense. A silent gesture that could calm every storm in her mind.
Or he would have pulled her close, enveloping her in the solid, safe harbor of his embrace, while muffling the world's harsh edges to her satisfaction. A trick he would have used to plead to her ego and rock hard pride.
Or he might have teased her, a soft jest on his lips about how Vermax would chase Moondancer across the sky, just as he chased after her heart. A jest that would bring them both to laugher for a moment and pulled them out the harsh reality.
Or perhaps, he would have simply kissed her, softly, a silent promise against her lips that she wasn't alone.
Anything. He always knew what to do to her heart and mind. Anything to pull her back from the precipice of this endless overthinking, this spiral into the dark depths of every loss, every injustice, every empty space.
But that was it. That was not the reality Baela is in right now. Because there was no warm hand, no grounding embrace, no comforting voice, no gentle kiss. Only the hollow echo of his absence.
Soon another tear escaped, then another, tracing hot, silent tracks down her already wind-chilled cheeks. They felt like a betrayal of the numbness she wore like armor for years. A persona she chooses to plead like a real Targaryen.
Now, a deeper chill seeped into her bones, not just from the sea wind whipping around Driftmark, but from the vast, desolate emptiness within. It settled around her, colder than the deepest winter. Like a shroud woven from memories and the unbearable silence left in the wake of all that was gone.
And before Baela realizes, her gaze grew distant, fixed on the grey horizon without truly seeing it. Her mind drifted, untethered from the cold sand and the biting wind. But, somewhere in that numb haze, a voice cut through the fog—clear, warm, and achingly familiar.
Jacaerys’s voice. The one voice Baela always missed night and day ever since that harsh war slapped her.
"Cold? We can't ever feel cold. There's fire in our veins, Baela." He would say—no, Baela could heard it. And she could swear, in that instant of memory, the chill had truly vanished, burned away by his presence and the truth in his words.
A painful smile touched Baela’s lips now, brittle as dried seaweed. The cruel twist of memory was sharp. Because when he’d spoken those words, she’d been standing on the sun-warmed black sands of Dragonstone. Jacaerys had been right beside her, his shoulder solid against hers. Together, they had looked out towards Driftmark, a shared horizon. And above them, Moondancer and Vermax would had danced and circled. Painting the sky with their freedom, their shadows playful on the sand below. And warmth... warmth would had radiated from Jacaerys’s touch, or from their dragons’s presence, or perhaps, from the fire in their shared blood.
Now, the memory dissolved like smoke. She was not on Dragonstone. The sand beneath her was pale and cold, not volcanic and warm. No shadow of Moondancer crossed the desolate sky. Vermax’s proud roar was silenced forever. The fire still burned in her Targaryen veins, a low, stubborn ember, yet it offered no warmth against the emptiness. A deep, pervasive cold seeped through her skin, into her marrow, untouched by the dragon’s legacy within her.
But worst of all, the one thing that cutting deeper than the cold or the loss of wings, was there are no Jacaerys beside her. Only the vast, echoing silence he had left behind.
Slowly, Baela crumpled inward. Her body folding like a dragon forced into a cage too small for its spirit. And great, shuddering sobs tore through her. They are no longer silent. Tears flowed freely now, hot and unrestrained, carving paths through the salt spray dried on her cheeks. She gasped right then, and the air feels thin and useless in her lungs.
Because this life—this hollow performance of duty and survival—was suffocating her, crushing her beneath its unbearable weight.
And here, in this stolen moment of solitude on the desolate shore, where the crashing waves were the only witness, she wasn't the Lady of the Tides. She wasn't a pawn in the realm's games. She was simply Baela Targaryen, stripped bare, like she had always were when she were with her Jacaerys.
However, in this raw vulnerability, the feels of missing of him hit like a tidal force. An agony so profound it stole her breath. For she missed her Jacaerys with every shattered piece of her soul.
A ragged sigh escaped her then. And she lifted a trembling hand, roughly wiping the tears from her face. The heavy, aching gravity settled deep within her chest, an anchor in her heart that never truly lightened. Yet, the image of Jacaerys’s face—the earnest warmth in his dark eyes, the curve of his smile—remained as vivid and sharp as the day he’d last looked at her.
It hadn’t faded; it was etched into her very being.
And then, amidst the storm of grief, a painful smile touched her lips. It was a small, fragile thing, born of tears and an ache that would never leave. Because she understood. This pain, this relentless, tearing sorrow… it was the brutal, undeniable proof of her love for him. It was the echo of their stolen moments, the ghost of his touch, the resonance of his laughter. It was the stark evidence that they had existed, together.
That their love had been real and burning and true.
Baela knew, she always knew. That she wouldn't trade this feeling. Not even for a life free of this piercing hurt. But because to wish away the pain would be to wish away him. It would mean never feeling the warmth of his hand, never hearing his voice call her name, never knowing the fierce joy of loving Jacaerys Velaryon.
It would mean forgetting him. And that was a price far greater than any pain. So, as every other day when her feelings felt loud, Baela made the decision once more. That she would carry this ache, this living memory of him, until her own fire went out.
Or, until she could meet him again.