Work Text:
Inspired by this tweet ❤️
https://x.com/Jacaelaerys/status/1910390532779426187?s=20
Jacaerys leaned against the doorframe of his chambers, his arms crossed over his chest, all his weight shifted to one side. From there, he watched her with amusement. Baela was pouting. That idea, so typical of her, had reached his ears through the court corridors. Any other husband would have been furious at such audacity. He had heard that he should lock her up, because with Baela, no one knew how far she was capable of going.
He wasn't going to lock her up. He wasn't an abusive husband. Nor was he going to grant her every whim, no matter how much he loved her. He wouldn't give in to that demand.
So there he stood, in the doorway of his chambers, watching her purse her lips like a child who had been denied a treat.
"Look who's pouting now," he said.
Baela looked up and, completely offended, spoke: "I'm not pouting."
“Yes, you are.” He stepped back from the doorway. As he took his first step, his boots slammed the heavy oak doors shut behind him.
“My wife, suddenly, becomes a spoiled brat because I won’t let her and our babe die in a tournament… What a sadistic, cruel husband!” He paused, as if accusing her. “I’ve been told that’s precisely what you’ve accused me of.”
“You hate me and despise me,” she retorted. “That’s the only answer. You hate me so much you want to see me suffer.”
Jace stopped in front of her. So close his knees brushed her thighs. He lowered his gaze, and his expression softened as he recognized the vulnerability hidden beneath all that anger in her eyes. Baela was capable of being both incredibly stubborn and incredibly sweet at the same time; two qualities that sometimes frightened him together. Especially now, with emotions running high, when everything had to be done exactly as she said. And that was precisely what he had ordered. Although Baela insisted it would be a girl—according to her, it would be a girl, and he couldn't deny her anything, so it would be a girl—sometimes he wondered what he would do if it turned out to be a boy. How would he please her so as not to upset her if his prediction failed?
"I love you more than my own life. That's why you won't ride a horse in armor carrying our babe."
“I’m only four months pregnant,” she retorted. “I can move. I can fight. In fact, I could…”
“You can continue sitting watching from the stands, like any other beautiful, pregnant highborn lady in the realm,” Jacaerys concluded, taking her hands. Their wedding rings brushed against each other.
Baela glared at him. She pulled her hands away sharply, as if the contact burned her, and leaped to her feet, standing at his level.
“You’re supposed to grant me every wish while I’m pregnant,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “That’s what the maesters said. That’s what you promised me. Do you forget your promises, husband?”
He raised an eyebrow at the accusation.
“I never forget a promise but I would appreciate it if you would clarify. What exactly is it you desire right now, my love?”
She held his gaze; She was so close he could feel the warmth of her breath.
" I want to see violence"
He couldn't believe it. A laugh of pure surprise escaped him. He raised both hands and gently caressed her face, brushing against her now slightly rounder cheeks. Delicately, he lifted her chin so she looked directly into his eyes and heard him clearly.
"Violence," he repeated in a low, almost incredulous voice. It wasn't just violence;
it was what she desired. "You want blood."
"Yes."
"And since I won't allow you to put our baby at risk on the waiting lists..." he touched his lower lip with his thumb. "...you're going to take it out on me."
"You think you can handle me?" she asked defiantly. "You don't know me."
"I've put up with all your moods. I can put up with you."
"If you can't grant my wishes," she retorted. "Then you don't deserve me."
He knew where she was going with this; she wasn't going to get away with it, no matter what she said.
"You decide if you want to watch the tournament from the stands... or stay here. But you won't compete. I'm not going to let you kill yourself over a tournament."
"I should have married Alyn"
He knew she was saying it to hurt him, to force him to react. Could Alyn be better than him? A better husband?
He wanted to laugh in her face. There wasn't a better man than him in the Seven Kingdoms, or even beyond. Alyn Velaryon would always be his brother-in-arms, but a good husband was another matter entirely. He seriously doubted it. Especially when he remembered the ladies Alyn collected, all of them trying to win Baela's favor with sweet words that only made her angry.
He didn't like any of it. And even less so when Alyn sent his wife sappy little letters along with gifts brought back from his conquests at sea. As if he didn't do it . It was impossible that such a flirtatious man could be on her level. He was sure that Baela was well aware of all the rumors circulating in Driftmark about Alyn Velaryon and his weakness for beautiful women.
“Yes, of course,” he replied sarcastically. “Alyn, that’s your favorite man… He’s not your type, my dear.”
“What do you know about my type?”
“I am your type.” He was completely sure of that.
“If you didn’t like me, you wouldn’t have married me.” Baela could have run away that day, but like him, it was something they both wanted, so she was only lying, only saying it to annoy him; not even jokingly could Alyn Velaryon be a better candidate than him. The very idea was almost offensive to her. “You can ramble on about marrying another man all you want… You won’t change the facts, you’re married to me.”
“I could run away with my baby and you’d never hear from us again.”
“You could… but you wouldn’t,” he replied, his tone showing his certainty. “You wouldn’t leave Moondancer.”
“Listen to me” he continued. If what you want is violence, I could arrange some contests so you can watch them beat each other to a pulp… from the stands. —
Isn't it wonderful to see men end up bruised and bleeding without you having to risk a single hair?
Baela didn't answer immediately. An idea had crossed her mind, and her silver eyes lit up with that spark.
"Put Ser Robert Darklyn against Ser Lyonel Greyjoy," she said without hesitation.
His wife had an almost cruel talent for choosing. Those two men would never face each other in a normal tournament; lotteries and random pairings would never give them such evenly matched and ferocious opponents. She didn't want just any old spectacle. She wanted real blood. To see two renowned warriors tear each other apart under the sun.
He couldn't help but smile. Inside, approval came quickly.
"Excellent choices," he admitted, and lightly squeezed her fingers. "It will be as you say."
"I thought you weren't coming," Joffrey said, settling more comfortably in his seat and crossing one leg over the other.
She sat down beside him, adjusting the weight of her barely rounded belly.
"I changed my mind."
Joffrey smiled slightly, satisfied.
"Wonderful. Did you know that Ser Robert and Ser Lyonel are in the first round? It's a bit rare to see real fights these days."
Before she could reply, he sat up a little and shouted toward the field.
“Hey, big guy! Hit him hard ! I’ve bet fifteen dragons on you! Don’t you dare disappoint your prince!”