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There are several choice words Jace could use to describe his cousin. Erratic, to be certain. Insecure, most definitely.
Arrogance abounding.
But this—this would almost be amusing if it weren't so audaciously appalling.
"Wed Jace to me," Aerion demands.
King Daeron's silence is as sharp as the swordsteel he sits upon. His court, assembled in full, spread throughout the Great Hall, observing keen-eyed, keen-eared, and sharper-tongued, hold their breaths to match his restraint. Their gazes are alive with their thoughts and later, when they are dismissed, the Red Keep will echo with their whispers louder than if Balerion himself were to slip free of the Stranger and announce his revival with a dread roar.
But beyond the king, beyond Uncle Maekar with his features shifted from dark disappointment to bewildered outrage, beyond Uncle Aerys' unimpressed arched brow and Uncle Rhaegel's furrowed one, beyond Queen Myriah with her elegant fingers interlocked tight, beyond even his twin's rapid, disbelieving blinking, the not-at-all subtle glances at Jace across the meagre distance between them where they stand on opposite sides of the throne—beyond them stands his father, living statue of divine grace in the midst of mortal impudence.
Tall.
Straight-backed.
Regal in dress and bearing as befits the Prince of Dragonstone and Hand of the King. Bedecked in a deliberate placidity so perfect as to be mistaken for natural and yet, in that perfection, all the deadlier for it.
Not for the first time, he reminds Jace of Balerion—the god, not the long cold dragon—from those Valyrian texts which survived the Doom. A fortress unto himself. The Freehold's First Flame, though not, as the stories tell, their oldest. Despite his dominion over eternal renewal oft presenting itself in too-tender youth, Balerion the god did not always take the form of a child. As a man grown, he fashioned himself as a seasoned warrior, scholar, supplicant. Forebearance in the mien. Humility.
Ruthlessness beneath charity's iron surface.
Of all the Valyrian gods, Balerion's myths boasted the least slaughter. Yet he was peerless in the absolute annihilation of his foes. Nothing grew and nothing lived where Balerion's wroth had risen.
For his abiding patience, Jace's fourth father is nothing like his mother. Time has proven his rage equally unsparing.
Aerion's blood protects him from more than he knows. Aerion, in his imbecilic imperiousness, repeats himself, interpreting the silence for a sudden deafness afflicting the entire throne room without exception.
"Wed Jace to me, Grandsire." Impossibly, he lifts his chin higher. The motion only draws more attention to the purpling bruise at his jaw. "There's no better match for a dragon than another dragon."
Daemon in miniature, Jace muses. Then, Daemon, greatly reduced.
You have his teeth, princeling, but nothing of his fire.
Only one person in this hall has ever seen a living dragon. Has ever hatched and ridden one. Shared that singular soul split evenly between two bodies. Only one person here has lived with the symbol of their house walking amongst them, sharing their halls and their meals, those flames that ravaged the Seven Kingdoms careful-caged in the bodies of their parentage. Formidable as Daeron is, as his sons are, none of them know the fire, only its embers. Near a decade of being the Rogue Prince's son had numbed Jace to childish bluster. It has not numbed him to its consequences.
Fortunately for everyone in attendance, neither Daemon nor his Mother have followed him into this life. Fortunately for Aerion, neither has Vermax. Jace had hoped Uncle Maekar would see through his second son's façade eventually, ideally in a more private setting, but disappointment is not unfamiliar to him either.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't need nor want to.
King Daeron is not the man Viserys was.
"No."
Nothing more. Nothing less. Not so much as a hair's width of room for debate.
The king looks to his fourth son.
"Remove him from my sight, Maekar."
Prince Maekar nods briskly. He takes Aerion by the shoulder and pushes him toward the nearest side entrance, sparing their family and the court those objections that might otherwise arise in the long stretch between the throne and the Great Hall's doors.
Father—because he is Father now not just Prince Baelor son of Daeron son of Aegon son of Viserys, Jace's Viserys, Mother's Viserys—hoards his thoughts until the king has dismissed them. In the Hand's personal study, he doesn't claim a seat as his two oldest children do. He turns his jeweled ring and regards the world beyond his window.
Soon that all-seeing gaze descends upon his get.
He beholds Valarr first, as has always been the order of things since their birth, and does not find in him any concern worthy of immediate note.
He beholds Jace.
"You are unmarked," he says.
Quiet, not small. Not questioning.
Certain.
As if, were it not so, he might make it with speech alone.
"Yes, Father," Jace confirms.
The skin at his nape is flawless. Unpierced.
Father does not nod. He shares many similarities with his youngest brother—though the fools will claim he and Prince Maekar are alike only in blood—but here, today, in this matter and in this chamber, subservience does not suit. He abandons the window to approach them. He rests a callused palm on Valarr's cheek. Brushes the knuckles of the other against Jace's.
"This won't happen again."
Afterwards, Father sighs.
The sound and the touch are the closest surrender he will allow himself within these walls. With the Hand's broach yet affixed to his breast. He doesn't grant them his scent, not even to reaffirm, not here. They are past those years when such sentiment would be seen simply as a father's caring and not an indication of deficiency.
"My sons," he says. "My boys."
And then, "I would have preferred some warning."
Valarr cracks a smile. As in birth, so in rearing; he's always been the first among them to cede his mask. Mayhaps that tendency does not suit the man second-in-line to the Iron Throne, but Valarr is a very different heir than Jace had been. He won't know war as Jace did. The terrible yawn of a grief that pressed at all sides, all hours. Jace made that oath nine-and-ten years past in the embrace of a shared cradle. His twin is soft in a manner he and Luke and even Joffrey were forced to sever early. Jace intends to preserve that quality for as long as he can.
He breaks from their father's touch to peck Valarr's left cheek. Notes that too-easy blush. Meets those mismatched eyes even as the weight of another burn into his profile.
"Thank you," Jace murmurs.
Valarr's smile slants sheepish.
"It was long overdue," he responds.
Father clicks his tongue. "You might have been more discreet."
"And let him continue accosting Jace in the corridors?" Valarr's face scrunches. "Please, Father, do not mistake me for some unfeeling wretch."
Jace smiles, kissing his adorably sincere twin on the cheek a second time before leaning away. He reaches for their father's fallen hand as he retreats. Brushes his lips against the faint scars across the knuckles, apologetic, even as he keeps his gaze fixed to Valarr.
"Subtlety had run its course," Jace provides. "My brother did me a kindness."
Valarr huffs. "Don't tease, Jace. I merely did as anyone would have upon seeing their kin's footfalls so haunted by—" He frowns. "By him."
"He has a name," Father chides. "And Aerion is kin just the same."
"Not just the same," Valarr corrects, uncharacteristically bold with their father in his disdain for Aerion.
"Not nearly," Jace agrees.
He relaxes his grip on his pheromones, letting the scent of birch sap and orange citrus unfurl between the three of them. He avoids passing their flesh or robes over the glands on his neck and wrists. Means to soothe possible tensions not invite more headaches.
Father is too seasoned to be heard as he inhales deeply. Safe amongst present company, Valarr doesn't bother.
"I would hope," Father's baritone begins, "you made attempt to extend this courtesy to your cousin. Before it came to blows."
Jace shakes his head. He clutches that broad palm between his, playing idly with the fingers as he admits, "It came to blows because of such courtesy."
A pause.
"I see."
"The blow itself was well struck," Jace adds.
Valarr blushes again. Father hums.
"I hadn't expected him to call for your hand," his twin admits haltingly after another deep breath. Beta that he is, he doesn't need as much to be soothed, but he indulges as Jace indulges him.
Father's fingers curve around Jace's. Their breadth dwarfs his.
"I did."
They lift their heads to look at him. Father's features take on a rueful bent.
"A certain insolence runs in the family, I fear." His mouth curls upwards, hinting at a smile without fully relinquishing to it. "You are proof enough of that yourselves. Each day you streak more silver along your own father's head."
Jace stiffens in his seat.
A certain insolence in the family.
Mother had spoken those words in the past. About Joffrey's refusal to speak to Daemon during the early months of their marriage. He hadn't taken well to a new father so soon after losing Ser Laenor. He, unlike Jace and Luke, made no attempts to obscure his discontent. The memory grew humorous as the years had unfolded—Joffrey, of any of them save Baela, had formed himself closest in Daemon's irreverance.
That the words leave Baelor's mouth now turns Jace's syrup scent bitter.
Father and brother respond to it swiftly. Valarr leans toward him. Father—his Father, fourth of them, of Dorne as of Dragonstone, Hand of the King—drops to his knee on the flagstones.
You'll dirty your doublet, some distant part of him frets.
The greater body of his consciousness wrestles with fraught memory.
"Jacaewyn," that foreign-familiar baritone beckons. That foreign-familiar name. Fingers rough with decades of spear and swordsteel tip Jace's face gently to meet a softened gaze. Those eyes have lost all artifice, remorse dwelling in their mismatched depths. "It was meant in jest, sweetling. Forgive your father his poor humor."
Baelor, Jace reminds himself. Baelor only.
Nine-and-ten years have passed in this life. With them, endless tests on various persons surrounding him to determine if Jace had not slipped the arms of death and been reborn alone. Endless tests and endless failures.
Ever has he carried Mother in his steps, his words, his breath. Ever has he bore that blessing and curse without company or confidante.
Baelor son of Daeron son of Aegon son of my youngest brother.
Jace angles his head just-so to spy his twin without sacrificing their father's touch.
And Valarr, son of Baelor and Jena.
He breathes out. Presses his lips to his father's wide palm and his own to Valarr's jaw.
"Apologies. I was...momentarily lost to memory." He tries for a smile. The edges tremble. "Aerion's attentions affected me more than I realized."
Valarr's jaw clenches. "I should have acted sooner."
Jace urges his twin closer until their brows press against one another. He murmurs his assurances. "You were wise not to. I was the fool for allowing his behavior to persist so long without correction."
Aerion has his uses, as Daemon had for Mother. Despite his shortcomings when compared to the Rogue Prince's...efficiency, Aerion's possessiveness—however mistaken—kept the carrion from circling.
How Mother bore their droning during her young, unmarried years, he'll never understand. This new world without dragons but altered biologies for everyone had exposed him to different dangers than he knew in his first life. The taint of buggery had loosened its grip in the realm's esteem, the harassments of the menfolk alongside it. Unsurprisingly, lords and lordlings were more shameless than even the occasionally brave lady Jace previously endured, Baela notwithstanding. Presenting omega made him uniquely vulnerable. Other protections aside, dragon's blood has done little to alter that.
His betrothals afforded him temporary grace, but Jace's last two prospects proved ill-fortuned. The throne has yet to consider a third. Most like for fear of the gossip it might herald should another incident obstruct him from the altar. It wouldn't do for a Targaryen omega to appear spurned by the gods.
Jace thinks it doubtful with Aerion soon removed from the board.
"This will not happen again," Father repeats.
His voice is hard where his grip is not. Both are unyielding.
Jace strokes the back of his wrist where his sleeve hem doesn't cover, mindful to avoid the scent gland.
"No," Jace concurs. "It won't."
Aerion failed to sink his teeth before Valarr interceded. Jace's hip aches with a bruise blooming all the same. Father will not learn of it—not from Jace and not from Valarr—but he will learn in time. Capable Hands always do and Father is the best of them. Hopefully that information won't reach his ears until after Aerion is already dealt with. His cousin must needs be well out of Father's reach if he is to escape harsher consequences for his misplaced conceit.
Jace nudges his nose against Valarr's, then draws back from his brother and father. He fixes his slouch.
"What is to be done about Aerion?"
Father rises. He props himself against the Hand's desk without fully conceding to sit, thighs roped with muscle and clothed in silk ever-so-slightly splayed as he leans. Silence answers Jace. Prolonged and pensive.
"Lorath should serve. Father won't require much convincing. Maekar..." He sighs. "Maekar will mislike the distance but he'll understand the necessity. This spectacle has seen to that."
Jace brushes the dirt and dust from their father's doublet where that noble knee graced the flagstones.
Father snares his hand and blows over the refuse. He passes his thumb over that supple center, then retreats. Turns his ring over and over. Not the jeweled band this time. The unadorned gold.
"Mayhaps a visit to Oldtown will comfort uncle," Valarr suggests. "Aemon's good health and standing should be a balm against Aerion's...exile?"
"Displacement," Jace offers instead.
"Displacement."
Father hums. "The notion will be brought to him when appropriate."
A knock at the door puts an abrupt end to their discussion. Father's openness dissolves, shuttered behind that dependable mask of placidity.
"What is it?"
Ser Roland answers from beyond the oak. "Apologies, my Lord Hand. The princes wished to be alerted when Prince Matarys finished lesson. A servant says he awaits them in the yard."
"Very well," Father replies. He lowers his voice once more after the acknowledgement. "The yard?"
"He begins today," Jace answers for them.
"Does he?"
Jace nods. "It's time, Father."
"Matarys is six."
"And we were four."
"You were..." His lips twitch wry. "Unusually precocious."
War waits for no one, Jace thinks.
They were Matarys' age when they watched their father depart them for the Redgrass, and they yet have rebels eyeing their shores. Discord follows their blood just as well as fire does. Closer, in some respects. Even here, even three generations removed, even with the sky warded from them, dragons still dance. Everyone in the family must be ready to meet it.
Father knows. He only plays at disagreement.
The habit doesn't surprise Jace. Not from a man whose childhood was similarly haunted by war's whispers. Not from a father who wishes to guard his children from carrying that burden sooner than they need to.
As Baelor is not the blinkered passive that Jace's grandsire was, the sentiment has ere been appreciated. Rarely has it been satisfied.
"Will you not join us?" Valarr proposes. "It would please Matarys to learn under your instruction."
Father shakes his head. He abandons his lean to round the Hand's desk, claiming his seat at last.
"Another time. Lord Ashford will need to be informed of our presence at his daughter's nameday celebration. Aerion's fate must be decided before we commit our numbers."
Valarr brightens.
Jace begins the task of marshalling his scent as his twin speaks.
"Won't you compete, Father? You promised to tilt at the wedding but the lists stood empty of your lance."
Valarr finds his feet first, bowing at the waist and extending a hand though he well knows his twin's regard for it. Jace strikes him across the shoulder—just enough to reject the gesture and dissuade any reoccurrences. At least for the day. Knowing Valarr, he'll tease him with it again on the morrow. Assuming he waits that long.
Valarr laughs.
Jace bites down the sarcastic, How does Kiera put up with you?
He hides his grimace as he levers to stand, abused hipbone protesting. His miscalculations are no one else's to bear. Certainly not a miscalculation as minor as this. The bruise is little and less to the phantom quarrel which intermittently plagues his dreams.
Father considers his heir's suggestion. "Two princes to champion Lord Ashford's daughter?"
"Gwin," Jace interjects, remembering the name.
Father dips his chin in recognition before continuing. "Maekar may very well put himself forth as a challenger. If for no more than to avoid being alone in the box."
"He won't be alone." Jace rolls his eyes. Affection smoothing the exasperation. His distaste for Aerion does not extend to their brusque uncle. "But I imagine he'll don his armor regardless the moment he discovers you plan to compete."
"You must needs entertain Lord Ashford on your own should that come to pass."
"I can manage," he says.
Of that there is no doubt. Lord Ashford's congenial reputation precedes him. Should such congeniality prove to be purely performance, Jace has still tangled with far more formidable adversaries than a lesser lord from the marches. Even the North thawed to his tongue. Familiar heartache lances through him at the thought, milder for spending almost two decades nursing the wound, as well as those hewn deeper.
Jace and Valarr arrive at the door, Valarr's hand finding purchase on the latch. He doesn't lift it yet; Father has not dismissed them.
He puts his quill to paper. Penning a word, mayhaps two, before returning his attention to his sons.
"The king may choose to postpone Aerion's punishment until after the tourney," he warns. "You will keep me informed if his injustices continue. And of the extent of them."
The bruise on Jace's hip twinges with acute awareness.
Father's gaze flicks briefly towards his clothed torso. Condemnation is absent. Cognizance is not. His father raises a dark brow. Daring.
Truly, he misses nothing.
...Almost nothing.
Valarr shifts on his feet.
Jace nods. Remorseful, if resistant to admit the deceit.
"As you say, Father."
Father sighs. A world unspoken in the wearied weight of that sound.
"All your love?" Valarr hazards, as unambiguous in his desire to depart as he is for forgiveness.
To leave with the assurance that they have not lost their father's regard.
Valarr has never liked hiding things from family. Older in the soul and the mind, if not the flesh, Jace knows some secrets are better served confined to the breast. Baelor Targaryen will never know he has his great-granduncle for a second son and he has been the happier for it. Jace will not steal that bliss from him nor his heir nor sweet Matarys.
His twin's prompting is a break in tradition within these officious walls. Nevertheless, it does not go unmet.
"All my love go with you," Father swears quietly.
His eyes slide the barest margin towards Jace, the light behind them changed. As to its nature, he can't say. That realization lands like a discordant note. Harp string misplucked.
"Go carefully," Baelor Targaryen bids, "that is your father's beating heart you carry, my sons."
Valarr grins, pleased. He lifts the latch and passes through the opened door.
Jace tarries.
One breath. Just one.
The Hand of the King watches him.
"Was there something else?" That peerless placidity inquires.
Jace frowns, so slight as to be nothing at all to an uninitiated audience. Ser Donnel hesitates, caught awkwardly between him and where Valarr continues already almost halfway down the hall. Jace takes mercy on the Kingsguard.
He ducks his head to the Hand.
"No, my lord. That will be all."
Jace strides after his twin, nape prickling oddly as he departs.