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As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys's granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena
"Come here, Jace."
Rhaenyra's voice rang out firmly as the guard ushered her eldest son into the chambers that had been assigned to him in the Red Keep. The conversation with Rhaenys in the gardens still weighed heavily on her chest. Her proposal regarding the princess had been clear: to unite Laena's daughters with her own sons. A necessary alliance, almost desperate.
She did not like it. She did not like it at all. But if she had to move her pieces on that chessboard of ambitions, she would do so now. If they declared Lucerys illegitimate, Vaemond Velaryon would not hesitate to raise the banners of House Velaryon in favour of the usurpers. And with that, she would lose her most powerful ally at sea—perhaps the only one who could still tip the scales in her favour.
She ordered Jacaerys to be summoned and promised herself that she would not leave that room without a sincere answer.
When the heavy door closed behind him, Rhaenyra regarded him with intensity. The young heir let his gaze wander across the chamber, clearly confused by the urgency of the summons.
"Leave us," she ordered the guard.
Once they were alone, Rhaenyra took a step closer, studying her son's face. His eyes, the same shade as his father's, watched her with attention and caution.
"I need an answer from you, Jace."
She wanted him to understand that, although the situation was grave, his will would remain sacred. If he said no, she would accept it. Even so, she silently prayed that he would at least consider the possibility. Vaemond Velaryon had become an increasingly sharp threat, and Lucerys… Lucerys was the most vulnerable of them all.
Jacaerys inclined his head slightly, listening to her with respect.
"I understand, Mother."
Rhaenyra drew a deep breath. Her voice softened, though it did not lose its firmness:
"What do you think of betrothing yourself to Baela?"
Jacaerys stopped a few metres from his mother. The distance between them was short, but at that moment it seemed like a chasm to him. He stood with his back straight and his hands loosely clenched at his sides, just as he had been taught since childhood. He had not expected that question. Not so directly. Not so suddenly.
He wished he were sitting, he thought.
He realised that he had seen this moment coming for some time. He was seventeen now; many lads his age in the great noble houses were already married, some even with a child or more in their arms. Yet his mother had not yet arranged any betrothal for him. Until now.
Jace accepted his destiny with the same naturalness with which he breathed. To marry, to secure the succession, to strengthen his mother's claim to the Iron Throne. That was his duty. That was his purpose. And he was not going to complain. He never had.
Even so, that it was precisely Baela whom his mother mentioned produced in him a strange mixture of surprise.
"What do you think of marrying Baela?" his mother asked.
Marrying Baela.
Though he would deny it, it was an idea he had guarded jealously in the deepest recesses of his heart for years. He remembered clearly how she used to flutter around him when they were children, full of fanciful notions, with that energy that only a daughter of Laena Velaryon could possess. And then, suddenly, they had taken her away to make her a ward of one of the most powerful houses in the realm.
At first he thought it was merely nostalgia. Nostalgia for having shared a happy childhood and seeing her disappear from his side overnight. What was a boy supposed to do, who had confided so many secrets to a girl so beautiful and so full of laughter?
It was inevitable that he would fall in love.
That was why he had buried those feelings. He knew that, although they were of the same age, the chances of his mother betrothing him to her were very slim. His mother always spoke of more strategic alliances, of grander names, of houses that could strengthen her claim to the throne. She had already married Laenor Velaryon. Forcing a stronger bond than the one that already existed had not been part of her initial plans.
*'You will never marry her. You do not deserve a pure Valyrian bride.'*
That thought had been his constant companion.
Even so, he had been able to watch her grow thanks to the visits Baela made to Dragonstone to see her sister. He had observed her become a bold and beautiful young woman. The fear that her father or Rhaenys would betroth her while she was still very young had been real. And if that happened, he would accept it. As heir to the Iron Throne, his conduct must be beyond reproach. He would honour his future wife, whoever she might be.
However, he could not deny that the mere idea of seeing her married to another man caused a dull ache in his chest.
And now his mother was presenting him on a silver platter with the only girl with whom he had never allowed himself to dream of a future beyond mere kinship.
"What has happened, Mother?" he ventured to ask.
Something grave must have occurred. Rhaenyra had been tense and anxious ever since they arrived at this nest of intrigue and treachery. This was not right. She was with child. She needed peace, not more daggers in the back.
Curse Alicent and the Greens, he thought with contained fury.
"I have played my best card," Rhaenyra replied, looking at him with determination. "I have proposed to Rhaenys that you be betrothed to her eldest granddaughter in return for her support in defending Luke."
So that was it.
His mother had run out of options. Rhaenys was not willing to open the doors of the Driftwood Throne to his brother, still less to hand the power of House Velaryon over to the Greens. In her desperation, she had been forced to offer the only thing that could still tip the scales: a seat beside the Iron Throne for Baela in the distant future, as consort to the future king.
"Forgive me, son…" Rhaenyra murmured, her voice heavy with burden.
Jacaerys wanted to tell her at once that there was nothing to forgive. This was how one played the same dirty game that the Greens had been practising for years. Luke deserved Driftmark. His little brother deserved that place as the next in line following Lord Corlys's disappearance and his fragile health. In spite of the shadows that had always hung over them—the illegitimacy that was whispered without respite—Laenor had acknowledged them as his own. That was their inheritance, and it would be Lucerys's inheritance.
However, he could not simply say "yes."
Although he was dying to admit that the idea seemed marvellous to him, he knew that he could not build a gilded cage and expect her to accept it with a smile. He respected Baela too much as a woman. If she said no, then his answer would be no as well. He was not going to condemn her to a loveless marriage, not when he had seen first-hand how those marriages of convenience ended up withering the souls of those who entered into them. He had the closest example before his eyes: his own mother, desperate, offering alliances in the midst of it all.
He stepped forward and took Rhaenyra's hands in his. They were cold despite the warmth of the brazier.
"There is nothing to forgive, Mother," he said, his voice firm and gentle at the same time. "…what does Baela think of all this?"
What did Baela think?
The last time they had been alone, Jacaerys had made an effort not to appear as shy as he felt. In spite of everything, it was impossible not to notice how Baela had changed. She had received an impeccable education alongside her grandmother Rhaenys; she walked as though the very ground belonged to her, she spoke with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, and she did not hesitate. They shared the same concern for Alicent's children and the danger they posed to his mother's ascension to the throne.
When he drew close to her side, it was impossible not to glance at her from the corner of his eye. *If all the women of old Valyria looked like her*, he thought, *no man could deny her anything*. Defending her honour as a knight would be both the easiest and the most difficult thing in the world at the same time.
His gaze drifted over the delicate curve of her collarbone, the elegant line of her neck, the fine tip of her nose and the profile of her face. Her lips, tinted, contrasted with skin as warm as sun-kissed caramel. Her eyes, a brilliant violet. Everything about her was a perfect blend of strength and delicacy.
He wondered whether the portraits that were sent of the maidens from the most powerful houses in the realm did her justice. Probably not. He, on the other hand, was the fortunate one who needed neither paintings nor imagination: he could behold her in the flesh, so close that he could almost feel the warmth of her skin.
"You've stopped talking, brother," Baela said suddenly, breaking the silence with that teasing voice that always managed to quicken his pulse. She was standing at his side. "Do I look so terrible that I frighten you?"
Her beautiful violet eyes sparkled with amusement, ready to catch him out. The real Baela was anything but ordinary; she was dazzling. Jacaerys felt clumsy, as he always did when trying to pay compliments to a beautiful woman, and all the more so when that woman was one of the loveliest he had ever seen in his life.
She wore a gown of deep blue velvet, in honour of her mother's house, with a square neckline that enhanced her figure. The edge of the neckline and the long sleeves were adorned with intricate silver embroidery that glistened like dragon scales in the light. Upon her head she wore a fine silver diadem, set atop a crown braid that held a long, translucent white veil, which fell softly down her back. Her attire was completed by elaborate earrings that brushed her neck and her hair, of a platinum-blonde shade almost silver, styled in natural waves that escaped the braid and framed her face like threads of moonlight.
"I trust that Rhaenys will inform her of my proposal and accept it," his mother said to him, with that iron determination that always characterised her, though Jacaerys could perceive the slight tremor of anxiety beneath her words.
It was the most ideal scenario, Jace thought: that Rhaenys herself should put the matter to Baela. A grandmother speaking with her granddaughter. That way, Baela could answer freely, without feeling trapped by duty or by expectant eyes upon her.
Jacaerys drew a deep breath, gathering all the composure he had cultivated over years of training as heir. He straightened slightly and looked his mother in the eye.
"Mother, I believe a marriage with Baela is a great opportunity for us," he said, striving to sound as serious and mature as possible. His voice came out firm, though inside his heart was beating fiercely. Marrying her had been one of those suppressed desires he kept in the deepest recesses of his being as a man—a longing he had never permitted himself to express aloud until that moment. "Two of the greatest houses in this realm united once more by marriage. The Targaryens and the Velaryons, strengthened not only by blood, but by a living and present bond. It would be an alliance that the Greens could not easily ignore."
Rhaenyra observed him closely. For an instant, her expression softened, setting aside the mask of warrior queen to show only the concerned mother.
"But… do you like her? I mean, do you like Baela? Do you desire her as a wife, not merely as a political ally?"
Jacaerys felt the heat rise up his neck and his cheeks grow warm. It was so typical of his mother to go beyond strategies and get straight to the heart of the matter. For the first time in a long while, he saw clearly that she cared about him beyond the mask of heir. He was her son. And that simple truth produced a wave of gratitude mixed with nervousness within him.
He lowered his gaze for a second, remembering.
"Yes, Mother," he admitted at last, his voice lower but sincere. "I do like her. Much more than I ever allowed myself to admit. Since we were children, Baela has been… different. It is not only her beauty, though the gods know she is dazzling. It is her strength. We share worries and dreams. If she accepts me, it would not be merely a political marriage. It would be… real."
Rhaenyra gently squeezed his hands, which she still held between her own.
"I do not wish to force you into anything, Jace. Neither you nor her. I have seen too many marriages become cages. I do not want that for you."
"I know," he replied, squeezing her fingers in return. "And that is precisely why I want it to be her decision as much as mine. If Baela says no, I shall accept it. But if she says yes…" A shy, almost boyish smile appeared on his lips. "Then I would be the luckiest man in the Seven Kingdoms."
Silence settled between them once more, but this time it was warmer, less laden with urgency. Jacaerys felt the weight of the decisions that lay ahead: the war that was brewing, the threat of Vaemond, the future of Lucerys at Driftmark. Everything depended on delicate threads. And one of those threads was Baela.
In his mind, he already imagined what it would be like: waking beside her, flying together on their dragons, facing the court and politics as a team. As a chosen union. The very thought quickened his pulse.
"Then we shall await Rhaenys's answer," Rhaenyra concluded, regaining some of her regal composure. "And may the gods be kind to us in this."
Jacaerys nodded, though inside he silently prayed that Baela would not only accept the proposal, but would choose him. Not the heir. Not the future king. But Jacaerys Velaryon—the boy who had once run beside her along the shores of Driftmark, and who now, years later, wished with all his being to walk beside her towards the throne.