He remembers her gaze; loving, accepting and knowing. He burrows closer into her warmth and smiles when she wraps her hands around him. He falls asleep with the knowledge that he is loved.
(A window into the relationship of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Jacaerys Velaryon, a mother and a son.)

 

Though his fifteenth nameday was still half a year away, Prince Jacaerys proved himself a man, and a worthy heir to the Iron Throne.

-Gyldayn

His first memory is a blur to him now. Indistinct voices and lights mixed together to leave just an impression on his mind, and even of that impression he cannot be sure. But he remembers one thing clearly, with sharp clarity. He remembers his mother's smile accented by the flickering fire around them. He remembers a smile that assured him that he was safehappyandalright and soft but strong hands tucking him close, protecting him from the world.
He remembers her gaze; loving, accepting and knowing. He burrows closer into her warmth and smiles when she wraps her hands around him. 
He remembers a soft song in the night, sung in a language he did not recognize then and in a voice that sounds like love. He does not remember the words.

Just the warmth.

He is five when he starts comprehending the insults. Although not completely, he recognizes the glances the people give him, his hair. They whisper. What, he does not know yet. But it impacts him all the same. Lucerys is too young to know. And Jacaerys doesn't want his brother to know. Wants to protect him from those eyes that stare and stare and stare with judgement, with doubt.

Sometimes he lingers, trying to find what exactly makes him so unliked, so deserving of their doubt. At first, they are careful. Words guarded and picked cautiously. He pretends he does not notice. They believe him. And then, he hears.

Hears the insults levied against him, his family, his mother. Hears them from every corner they murmur. It is as if a dam had broken and he has suddenly started to see, exactly how much they talk and how much they whisper. 'Bastards', he hears them say, 'Impure' he hears from the mouths of the more bolder ones. No one says it to his face but they whisper and that is enough.

He is angry. Tremendously so. But he is only a child. He does not know how to navigate through these emotions, this anguished and overwhelming fear and confusion. They overpower him and he runs to his only safe house, his source of comfort; his family, his mother. He tells her all. The whispers, the glances, the insults. He tells and tells and looks at her, afraid of her anger at his revelation. And he does see anger. An inferno blazing in her eyes, not unlike a dragon's flame. But somehow, he knows that this anger is not directed at him but at the vultures that threaten to hurt his family, threaten to tear them apart with their glances and insults. He looks at her, at her anger and he feels safe. He finds a shore in this ocean of chaos and uncertainty. Knows that whatever decides to hurt them tomorrow, will have to face their mother. Knows that he will be protected.

"Jace", she calls his attention to her with a soft call. A mother's call. Undeniable. Irresistible. He looks up and listens. "You are my son. You are my blood. That is all that matters", she tells him. And he cannot help but agree. 

He is seven when he learns to command his dragon. Vermax is beautiful and she is his. Her verdant scales and gold eyes glint in the darkness of the dragonpit. He is afraid of course, but he is also fascinated. She is proof, that he is his mother's son. Proof that he is a Targaryen. Many doubted if the egg would ever hatch. But it did. So did his brother's. And he watched them all fall silent. When Vermax was born he had lifted his head up and issued a silent challenge to the world in his mind. I am a Targaryen. You cannot take my birthright from me.

When he went back to mother's chambers, he was there. The Commander of the City Watch. The kind man who was always beside him, beside them. The man whose hair matched his own. The man who was more his father than Laenor Velaryon ever was. At night he sometimes wondered what a world would be like if he was not of Targaryen blood, if his mother was not the heir. If it was just his family and Lord Strong, living together in peace and happiness as a family. He would learn all the sword tricks that would make him a knight from Lord Strong and his mother would look over at them, proudful and peaceful and happy. But he could not voice those thoughts. Because after all his father was Laenor Velaryon even if he was lacking. Because his father was Laenor Velaryon even if he was no father at all.

Mother assured him that it did not matter what they said. That he was her son. He agreed. But he also knew that the opinions of others did matter. They mattered to him. They questioned his mother because of him. But he was a child. He could not protect her, yet. But he would. He would be by her side when all of them weren’t. He would be by her side even if all the people of the world turned against her. He would be there for her, just as she had been there for him.

Lucerys takes Aemond’s eye when they fight against him. His uncle took what what rightfully their aunt’s and dared to flaunt it against his cousins who were only just recovering. He does not regret it. Makes sure that Lucerys knows it too as they stand in the Hall where the King Viserys, his grandfather demands an explanation. They stand huddled in the corner and he holds on to his brother with all the love and protection he can give him. There is blood running down his face but he does not care. He stands strong because he knows, he knows mother will be here. She will protect them.

She arrives, shouting her son’s names. She is as desperate to find as they are to find her. She whispers to Luke to show his injuries, silently saying that it is safe, she’s here. She looks to him as she sees the blood, feels the bone fractured in his brother’s nose. And compelled, he tells her. He tells her the insults Aemond dared to say to their faces. He tells her all that and she stands. Stands as tall as a mountain, as a dragon protecting her hatchlings. 

And protect them she does. She throws herself in front of the Queen as she comes to take his brother’s eye. His little brother so easily frightened, screams as he startles and Jace drags him back behind him in case there needs to be a second line of defence. To protect him just as mother is protecting them. Mother is a vision there, in the fire. Eyes flaring and gait proud, looking every inch the Targaryen, the Dragon that she is. And he is glad that he is hers , so glad it burns in him like a fire.

He is fourteen and learning the language of his ancestors- High Valyrian. He has heard it, many times in fact, spilling from his mother's lips as she converses with her new husband. He was young when mother chose to wed Daemon and he had been angry. So, so angry. He had seen it as a betrayal back then. It had felt as if mother had abandoned them to now form a true, real family. He had been standoffish for days before she confronted him. And he regretted that night more than anything.

He had raged and screamed at her in his anger, in his delusions of betrayal. Accused her of never valuing him or Luke and how she would forget them now that she would get new sons, true sons that looked every bit the Targaryens they were meant to be. In truth, all of this anger stemmed from his own fear and insecurities. He did not want to lose her. Did not wish to lose his mother, his family. They were his heart and soul and he would not know what to do without them. So he had sharpened his fear into blades and in his youthful tantrums, he had hurled those blades at the person he wanted to hurt the least.

And mother? She had screamed right back.
Looking back, that was the confirmation he had needed, to truly cement in his mind that he was Rhaenyra's and no one else's. He looked at his mother, in the dim light of his room, blazing as an inferno as she told him in clear, indisputable words that He was hers and She loved him and He would not be forgotten and that he was Hers. He regretted a lot that night but he could not regret the hug she had given him in the end, as he confessed that he had spoken out of fear and desperation.
He had been young back then. But he understood now. That his mother needed someone to stand with her, to protect her. And he could not, yet. So he took Daemon's presence in stride and tried to learn everything he could from him. He needed to learn, he had to become a son worthy of his mother, an heir worthy of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

Then Corlys Velaryon was injured and they headed to the Red Keep. He watches as Luke is affected by the people's eyes, their whispers and gossip and does his best to reassure him that their opinions did not matter. Only their family does. He takes Luke to the courtyard where they used to train as children and hopes to remember their childhood with his brother. They trained here together once, with their uncles. 
Suddenly, there is a commotion around them. They watch as Ser Criston faces against a silver haired warrior who ducks and weaves through his attacks. It is exciting, but then the mystery warriors turns and suddenly they are wary. This is his uncle. The same one whose eye Luke had claimed years ago in their tryst as children. He pushes his brother behind him, every instinct gearing up to defend, to protect. It seems that his uncle has grown up into a formidable warrior; a rider worthy of Vhagar. This thought does not bring him comfort.

Vaemond Velaryon is an obstacle and he deplores him for worrying mother. He tries his best to be there for her, to provide whatever help and comfort he can. He would fight every person who questions his mother if he could. He would prove to them that his blood, their blood runs as hot as the first dragon. 

Vaemond brings into question his brother's legitimacy in front of his grandsire and the court. He brings into question his mother's virtue. He dares to call her a whore and all he wants in that moment is his death(deaddeadbodylayingontheground howdarehehowdareHehoWDAREHE). 
Daemon is faster. His step-father separates the man's head from his body but lets him keep his tongue. The same tongue that questioned his mother. He's surprised at first, but later he burns with satisfaction at seeing his mother's enemy destroyed. His respect for Daemon Targaryen grows.

His brother is declared the heir to the Driftwood throne and he thrums with pride. He makes sure that Luke knows this as they head to their chambers. His brother smiles and it is reflected in his eyes. He feels his heart settle. All is well.

His grandmother arrives with the news that his grandsire is dead and the Greens usurped his mother's throne before his body was even cold.
He looks to his mother to see her face darkened and with a shadow across it. The Greens planned to usurp his brother's birthright and now they dare to steal her throne. When Daemon declares that King was killed and that this is treachery pure and simple, he is inclined to agree. 
Mother is uncontrollable. She trembles in her rage. The fire in the room dims, as if it is afraid of her, of her wrath. She trembles with grief and violence, the emotions warring inside her. He can feel it. The people around him are outraged at this act of treason, as if the Hightowers hadn't been planning for this from the beginning.

And then in the midst of this, there is blood on the floor.

His sister.
His sister is born. And yet, she is not. His sister was killed before she even took a single breath. He shakes with grief, with desperate pleas for her life. But he controls himself. He is now mother's heir. He has to be strong. He has to be calm. He has to. Because he knows that if this grief is what he is feeling, then mother feels it multiplied by thousands. And for this, for the loss of a child? There is no comfort.

The wind is sharp as knives as Jacaerys follows Lord Cregan Stark up the winding path, their breaths clouding the frigid air. Winterfell looms behind them, vast and enduring, yet small compared to the ancient Ice Wall stretching out against the sky, stark and unyielding.

“Tell me, Prince Jacaerys,” Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, deep and steady, “have you ever known a place as old as this?”

“No,” Jace replies honestly, glancing upward. “Dragonstone’s old, older than any Targaryen. But this Wall… this is different. Feels like it was here long before dragons ever took flight.”

Cregan nods, approving. “You sense it, then. The Wall carries the blood and toil of generations. Each stone is a testament, a reminder.” He rests a hand on the ice, his gaze somber and distant. “My people built this to keep out more than cold. They say it’s a promise to shield all the realms of men.”

Jace stays quiet, absorbing the weight of the words. A promise. The thought settles heavy in his chest. “And yet it stands,” he murmurs, feeling small despite his Targaryen pride.

Cregan chuckles, a rare, quiet sound that lightens the air around them. “That it does. Few things endure as it has. Kings and queens rise and fall, but the Wall… she remains.”

Jace nods, his thoughts trailing to the enormity of what lies before him. He begins to see something in Cregan he hasn’t seen in many men: a resolute sense of duty, unbending, cold as the North itself. And perhaps, too, there is something personal there—a kinship forged in shared understanding.

The wind howls, filling the silence between them as they approach the Wall’s sheer edge. Mist looms beyond, obscuring the horizon.

“This Wall,” Cregan begins, his voice rough like old stone, “was not made for men to play at war. My ancestors built it with purpose. A dragon crosses most boundaries... but even King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne’s mounts refused this one.”

Jace shivers, though not entirely from the cold. He feels the Wall pressing down on him—not physically, but with a presence that echoes through the marrow of his bones. “Why?” he asks softly, his voice barely audible against the icy wind.

Cregan’s eyes don’t waver. “My ancestors didn’t build a seven-hundred-foot wall to keep out stories and wildlings, my prince.” His gaze grows somber, the air around them seeming to chill further.

Jace’s heart races. What does it keep out, then? The question gnaws at him, his curiosity mingling with an ancient fear. “What does it keep out, then?” he manages, his voice tight.

Cregan turns toward him, his face a mask of grim certainty. His words come as a low whisper, each one biting like frost: “Death.”

Before Jace can respond, the sound of hurried footsteps cuts through the air. A messenger approaches, breathless from the climb. “From the South,” Cregan murmurs, his attention shifting briefly to Jace. The note is handed over, its seal stark against the parchment. “Best you read it yourself,” Cregan says gravely.

Jace takes the note with trembling hands, the cold doing nothing to steady him. Breaking the seal, he unfolds the message. The ink blurs, but the words burn into his mind with brutal clarity.

Lucerys is dead. Murdered by Prince Aemond, lost to the sea. Gone.

The world tilts beneath him. His breath hitches, sharp and ragged, as his heart threatens to burst from his chest. Luke. His brother. His shadow. His blood. Taken. Gone.

The paper slips from his hands, fluttering to the snow. Jace stares at it, unseeing, as grief and rage war within him. He feels the weight of the North pressing down on him—the Wall, the cold, the loss.

A firm hand rests on his shoulder. Cregan’s voice is low, steady. “I am sorry, Jacaerys,” he says quietly. “I know what it is to lose kin, and at the hand of an enemy.”

Jace’s throat tightens, his voice cracking as he forces the words out. “He murdered him… for sport.” The trembling in his voice betrays the storm within.

Cregan’s gaze remains steady, unwavering. “An enemy has no mercy, no justice. It is a bitter truth.” He pauses, his tone softening. “Remember him. But let your grief be your strength. The pain may burn, but it will guide you if you let it.”

Jace clenches his fists, the cold biting into his skin, grounding him. “I’ll make Aemond pay for this,” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous. “He’ll pay for every tear, every drop of blood.”

Cregan studies him carefully, his expression stern yet not unkind. “Hold to that fire, Jace. But let it not consume you.” His hand grips Jace’s shoulder firmly, his gaze piercing. “Your brother’s spirit deserves better than a heart poisoned by vengeance. Honor him by standing strong, not by letting hatred own you.”

Jace meets Cregan’s eyes, and for a fleeting moment, he sees understanding there. The Northman’s words, heavy as they are, offer something he hadn’t realized he needed: a lifeline.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Jace says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “For your counsel… and your friendship.”

Cregan nods, a slight smile breaking the stern lines of his face. “I see the strength in you, Jacaerys Velaryon. May it see you through the darkness ahead.”

And as the wind howls around them, Jace feels something stir within him. It isn’t the grief, nor the rage, but a spark of resolve—a fragile, flickering light to guide him home.

Dragonstone looms above him as he returns, the echo of his brother’s death fresh in his mind. He stands before his mother, tearfully recounting the men Lord Stark promised. The promise feels heavy, a duty layered with grief, as he looks into her eyes, seeing her own heartbreak reflecting back at him.

Rhaenyra’s embrace is fierce, almost desperate, and Jace allows himself to fall into it, feeling the warmth that has always been his haven. Together they grieve for Luke. For the innocence they have both lost.

To be continued…