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The air above the Gullet was thick with the reek of smoke and the screams of dying men. Dragonfire licked the sails of the Triarchy fleet, turning them to ash, while scorpion bolts answered, cutting through the sky like malevolent insects. From the back of Vermax, Jacaerys Velaryon led the dance, his heart a thunderous drum against his ribs.
“Follow me!” His command was ripped away by the wind, but the intent was clear. He urged Vermax into a steep dive, skimming so low over the enemy ships that the heat of their burning decks seared his face. It was a reckless, daring move, banking on speed and surprise. Behind him, he felt more than heard the presence of his allies. Baela on Moondancer, a streak of pale green defiance. Addam on Seasmoke, loyal and steadfast.
But where were the others? A glance back confirmed his sinking dread. High above, two massive shapes circled like vultures waiting for the kill. Silverwing and Vermithor. Ulf and Hugh. They hung back, distant and disengaged. Cowards, the thought spat through Jacaerys's mind, a hot and bitter poison. Or perhaps something darker—treason, already coiling in their hearts.
There was no time to dwell. The three of them—Jacaerys, Baela, Addam—were a whirlwind of scale and flame. Vermax bathed a deck in emerald fire. Moondancer, agile and fierce, strafed a line of scorpions. Seasmoke provided the crushing power, his roars shaking the very timbers of the ships. For a glorious, terrible moment, the battle seemed to swing their way. The Queen’s dragons were turning the tide.
Then after a heartbeat, the world changed.
The Triarchy captains, seeing their ships lost, turned their aim from the decks to the skies. A coordinated volley of bolts, massive iron-tipped things designed to pierce scale and bone, launched not at the dragons below, but at the shapes silhouetted against the sun. A tactic of desperation, The Dornish tactic.
And the thought of Rhaenys and Meraxes, falling from a Dornish sky a century ago, sent a cold spike of unease through Jacaerys’s gut. Yet, he shoved it down quickly. Because fear was a luxury he could not afford.
And so, he pressed on his attack. Baela, ever fearless, mirrored his movement, diving on a ship to his starboard side. And Addam, ever loyal, follow both of their lead in harmony.
Until...
"AHHH!!!" The scream that tore through the air then was not the sound of a dragon. It was human, it was filled with a pain so profound it cut through the din of war as if it were silence. It was her. It was Baela. His Baela.
In a split second, Jacaerys and Vermax’s head snapped around in harmony. And from there, his heart stopped dead in his chest.
Because a bolt had found its mark. Not a killing blow, but a crippling one, shearing through wing membrane and striking deep into Moondancer’s shoulder. The slender dragon let out a shriek that was the mirror of her rider’s, a sound of pure, animal agony. She twisted in the air, her flight path collapsing into a sickening, uncontrolled spiral towards the churning sea.
No. The word was a stone in his throat. No, no, no!
Instinct overrode strategy, duty, and sense. “Vermax!” he screamed, yanking hard on the reins. The dragon, bonded to his rider’s terror, responded instantly, wrenching its body into a desperate, screaming U-turn. They plunged, a bronze and green comet, chasing the falling form of the girl he loved and her dying mount.
I had to reach her, Jacaerys thought. I had to catch her, I had to save her. And in truth, there was no other thought.
Blinded by the vengeance rushes through his blood, Jacaerys never saw the bolt meant for him. And it took Vermax in the side of the neck in a second. The impact was a sickening, wet thud. Vermax’s roar of determination became a choked gurgle. The world upended in a violent cartwheel of sky and sea. The saddle straps snapped. Jacaerys himself was thrown free, plummeting through the open air, the sounds of the battle fading into a high-pitched whine. Then, the cold.
The impact with the water was a hammer blow, driving the air from his lungs and plunging him into a silent, murky world of shocking cold. Instinct, honed on the tides of Driftmark, took over. He fought his way back towards the shimmering, fractured light above, bursting through the surface with a gasp that was half water, half agony.
“Baela!” he screamed, spinning in the water, his eyes wildly scanning the floating wreckage and the spreading blooms of dragon blood—green and silver mixing in the foam.
There. A flash of silver hair. And a pale arm. Moondancer was gone, a shadow sinking into the deep, but Baela was there, her body limp, face terrifyingly peaceful beneath the water’s surface.
He swam, every stroke a battle against the weight of his clothes and a searing pain in his side he couldn’t identify. He reached her, his hands fumbling, pulling her face above the water. Her eyes were closed, her lips a faint, chilling blue. She wasn’t breathing.
As expected, panic that was colder and sharper than the sea, seized him in a blink of an eye. Yet, despite the chaos, he knew what he had to do. And his briliant mind also knew what waited above. Archers lined the decks of the nearby ships, their arrows trained on any movement in the water. To surface was to present a target. To stay was to drown.
The choice was no choice at all.
Jacaerys, however, took a huge, gulping breath while wrapped an arm around Baela’s chest, and pulled them both beneath the waves.
The world below was a eerie, silent cathedral. Sunlight filtered down in wavering columns, illuminating the slow, graceful dance of their hair and the bubbles escaping their clothes. He turned her to face him, cradling her face in his hands. He brought his lips to hers, sealing them, and pushed the precious air from his own burning lungs into hers. There, he saw her chest rise faintly. A tiny, pathetic movement. But it was hope, it was life.
Soon, he kicked them back to the surface, breaking through for just a second, just long enough to drag in another ragged gasp of air before the world erupted.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Arrows peppered the water around them like deadly rain. One grazed his shoulder, a hot sear of pain. But despite all of that, he submerged again, pulling Baela down into their fragile, temporary sanctuary.
Breathe for her, he thought to himself countless time. Then he pressed his lips to hers again, another transfer of life. His own vision was starting to spark at the edges. Let her stay, let her breathe another light.
Again, he surged upward. Another gasp. Another volley. This time, an arrow punched into the meat of his thigh. A white-hot agony lanced through him. He cried out, naturally, while swallowing a mouthful of saltwater before dragging them under, coughing and choking.
The rhythm was a torture devised in some seventh hell. A gasp of air. A descent. A kiss of life. Each time he surfaced, the arrows found him. A shaft buried itself in the leather of his arm. Another grazed his temple, sending a trickle of warm blood down his cold cheek.
His strength was leaching away into the cold sea, his lifeblood following it. The prayers began as silent, desperate thoughts, giving shape to his agony.
Gods of the Flames.. Gods of the Fire.. Gods of the Olds... Gods of the Seven... Gods of the Drowning... anyone… He prayed as he breathed into her. Let her stay, spare her, for I am nothing than a desperate slave of love... My life… it is all yours, take it... but let her stay.
He broke the surface again, his movements now sluggish and weak. The world was graying. An arrow struck his back, a brutal, impacting blow that stole what little breath he had. He sank, still clutching her, and in the deep, quiet blue, he gave her his last full breath, pouring his very soul into her lungs.
By now, his vision have tunneled. The cold was no longer biting. Rather, it was a numb in it's welcoming embrace. He had no more air to give. He had no more strength to rise. He held her face in his hands, his thumb stroking her cold cheek. He pressed his forehead to hers, a final, tender gesture in their watery tomb.
His mind, fading, offered up one last, fervent prayer to the silent, crushing deep.
Take me, he begged, the words a silent stream of bubbles that rose towards a world he would never see again. Take me instead. Take my breath and give it to her, if you must. Save her. I beg you with my life, this life or another. Please… save her. Let her stay.
And just like that. Darkness beckoned and it was over for him. He knew it.
Then, a miracle.
A flutter. A tremor against his hands. Through the haze of his ebbing consciousness, he saw it. Her eyelids, heavy and slow, began to open. Purple eyes he always love to look at, clouded with confusion and the shock of cold as she met his.
They were still drowned, of course. But the sea now hugged them tight as it was as cold a vice. Nevertheless, she was there. She was back.
A feeling of profound, unimaginable peace washed over him, more powerful than the pain, more warming than the sun. He had done it. He had pulled her back from the edge. A final, weak smile touched his lips, a testament to a love that had pleaded with the gods themselves, and won. Because it was all he wanted.
The smile was still on his face, a frozen monument of sacrifice, as the last light faded from his own eyes. In that final, liminal space between life and death, a memory surfaced, clear and warm amidst the cold.
“What is the most important thing to you, Jace?”
Baela had asked him once, their fingers intertwined on the ramparts of Dragonstone.
Back then, he had answered with the unshakable certainty of a devoted son.
“My mother’s crown. It represents her legacy. And her victory shall bring safety to our people. It is the most important thing.”
And what he loved most? It was her, his mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen. He had idolized her, built his entire purpose around securing her legacy.
Now, as that purpose bled out of him into the saltwater, he saw the truth with perfect, painful clarity. The crown was a symbol, a means to protect the mother he loved so fiercely. But this—this act of giving the very air from his lungs—was not for a symbol. It was not for a legacy.
That the answer to the question was her, Baela Targaryen. The one most important, the one he loved the most.
A tragedy so great it could separated his two selves from one another.
For the Prince of Dragonstone, Baela was of course not the most important thing; his mother’s cause still was. But for Jacaerys Velaryon, Baela was the one he loved most. The love for his mother was a fire that fueled his duty and familial bond, but his love for Baela was the air in his lungs... the final beat of his heart.
And he would sacrifice anything for her life and happiness, even if it meant he would never see the crown placed on his mother’s head.
"It turns out, I loved you more than I even realized, Baela."
The realization was not a betrayal, but a deeper, more terrifying truth. That at the end of his life, his braind could choose what was most important, but even with all his energy, he could not stop his heart from loving its true counterpart.
His heart. His life. His breathe. Baela Targaryen.
The next second was Baela’s own panic, raw and absolute, as life flooded back into her. She quickly saw the arrows, the peace on his face, the bubbles cease from his lips. She grabbed him, kicking wildly, and fought her way toward the light, dragging the terrible, smiling weight of her prince with her.
But he was gone. Dead. And painfully for her heart, will never comes back no matter how hard she'll pray.