the red keep, king's landing.
summer, 127 ac.

                    NAMES ARE EVERYTHING. Jacaerys Velaryon is a boy who clings onto his ─── he is a Velaryon, he has to be. It mitigates all else: his supposedly common features, his father's indifference towards him, Ser Harwin's inexplicable protectiveness over him and Luke and the babe Joffrey. He looks out for them, passes on advice, and it is known that boys wait with their fathers while mothers labour away ─── Jace was twelve when he learnt what the word bastard meant. Until then, it had only been a harmless whisper, a word passed between maids and disgusted glares from his grandfather's second wife. Aegon was the one to crudely spell out what it meant, and since then it's been a beacon.

                         Not for the first time, he recites the names of the conquerors. Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys. The King and his sister-wives, who burned their names into the history books and the land of Westeros ─── and subsequently, into his mind. There is awe in the Maester's voice when he speaks of them in lessons; awe marred with fear, as if their skeletons in the crypts could rise up and harm him.

                    Jacaerys can reject his father, but he cannot escape his mother's blood. For now, that is enough.

                    He's tall enough, now, to lean over the thick parapets, elbows resting against the pale red stone. He is older and can understand that, just as his grandfather told him, one day this will all be his. Jacaerys is the firstborn of a firstborn, and the world is his to inherit ─── so is this castle, forged on the hill named for the conquerors. Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys. The Red Keep, the Sept of Baelor, and the Dragonpit.

                    It was his own ancestors that did this, and Jace knows that he will have to one day bear this legacy ─── like Syrax, the old Valyrian goddess for which his mother's dragon is named, she who held up the sky for a thousand days. She who buckled beneath the weight, but broke only after the thousandth night.

                    Mother approaches. However sullied his blood may or may not be, he is still here; Jacaerys is still far closer to gods than most ─── Vermax is proof of that. She offers him a smile as she comes to stand beside him, not leaning the way he does but with the proper posture befitting someone of their status. Upright but relaxed, shoulders rolled back. Jace mimics her and straightens himself. She ruffles his hair. "You've been skipping again. The Maesters are hardly pleased."

                    "Luke is more than brilliant enough to make up for my absence." He replies, with no venom to it. To deny that his younger brother is better than him would just be blindness ─── he has a way with the words of their ancestors, a seemingly limitless memory of verb conjugations and declensions and tenses that Jace simply . . . lacks. He's willing to admit that in this circumstance, at least; in others? Debatable.

                    "It's your duty to learn ───" she pauses. "Or at least try."

                    "Thanks for that, Mother." He remarks sardonically.

                    "It is thank you." She corrects him, though her disdain is hardly aimed at her son.

                    He knows exactly what she means ─── or rather, who she means. Jace feels slight tendrils of defensiveness beginning to hover around him. It's such a slight to be taking superiority over. "It means the same thing."

                    She sighs, an attempt at a smile gracing her features, but it's tinted with sadness. "I say this because any perceived defect will be taken the wrong way by the court."

                    And why is that, Mother? Why am I scrutinised so? He knows the answer, they all do. "Then I should better get down to the courtyard for swordfighting now," he says evenly. "I will see you after, Mother."

                    She watches him go.

                    It starts as it would any other day: the four Princes forced together as usual. There doesn't seem to be enough space in this small part of the courtyard for all of them; as they pass, his and Aemond's shoulders collide as neither is willing to turn away. Jace's features are laced with a smirk, thinking once more of the Pink Dread. He glances at Aegon, about to make some comment, but he's patting Luke on the shoulder and moving on to the next dummy. Hacking and stabbing again, all under Criston Cole's jurisdiction.

                    He's only ever really had eyes and care for Aegon and Aemond. "Soften your knees." He instructs, hands held behind his back, leather armour dull in this light. "Feet light." Then he speaks louder to all of them. "Keep your feet light and your hands heavy. Now switch."

                    He finishes off the round with one final stab to the dummy, but Aemond appears at his side and knocks the sword from his hands. Jace scoffs at the pettiness, but Criston Cole is impassive. "Don't stand too upright, my Prince. You'll get knocked down."

                    Jace picks the wooden sword back up, glaring at Aemond, whose face is only empty and eyes still just as dull in response. He twirls the sword between his fingers in a single loop before attacking the dummy with more fervour. Jace turns away and moves on; what else is there to do? Peace is a fragile thing and the instigator will forever be blamed.

                    He keeps his ears keen and listens as Aegon proclaims he's done, to which Cole replies: "You'll have a new opponent then, my Lord of the Straw. Let's see if you can touch me." Jace initially doesn't think much of it ─── it's not uncommon for them to spar against the Sworn Shield ─── but perks up when he says it will be both princes against him.

                    While Criston Cole puts on his gloves and the princes ready themselves, Jace gravitates towards Ser Harwin, who shows him a brief smile but then resumes his stony expression.

                    Aemond lunges first with a guttural sound; Cole blocks easily and then deflects a blow his brother had aimed towards his legs in one smooth motion. His sword rises to meet one and then curves to deflect the next ─── he seems rather unfazed, one arm held behind his back. He parries, Aemond's own speed used against him as he stumbles forwards: a lithe lean away from Aegon's flashier attacks.

                    A brief pause in which they collect themselves. Nobody can deny Cole's skill with the sword.

                    They go again, pouring aggression into the equally timed strikes: Cole quells both with one downward stroke. Now he starts to push back instead of merely deflecting them like water on leather: Aemond repeats his previous mistake and rather than letting him stumble Cole gives an effortless push that sends him tumbling to the dirt.

                    "You're going to have to do better than that," he comments. Now he forcely taps Aemond's exposed arm and Aegon's final lunge is unceremoniously ended with him hitting his arse with the flat of his sword. Both boys are panting, silver hair unruly, but Cole merely watches them, dark eyes almost disappointed.

                    As Cole approaches them, Ser Harwin gives them a warning while holding his own proper sword: they train with wood and Jace eyes the metal, wondering when he will be deemed ready. "Weapons up, boys. Give your enemies no quarter."

                    The two adults exchange a loaded look before Ser Harwin begins to pace down the side of the training area. "It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston."

                    Ser Criston doesn't turn his head, but there's a disdainful quirk to his lips. "You question my method of instruction, ser?"

                    "No, Ser, as long as it's not archery." Harwin says evenly, setting his sword down on a stand. "I merely suggest that the method be applied to all of your pupils. There's four of them, not two."

                    "Very well. Jacaerys, come here." He is given no chance to move, for Cole has grasped him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to one end of the courtyard. He lets out a small noise of complaint, limbs trying to catch up with the rest of him. "You spar with Aegon."

                    A laugh from the older boys. It's plain to see that this fight will be short ─── Aegon is over a foot taller and four years older than him. "Eldest son against eldest son." Cole continues, watching Ser Harwin slowly gravitate back to them.

                    "It's hardly a fair match." He tries to admonish, hands behind his back and head low.

                    But Cole is like a snake that has been provoked: fangs are beared and venom is already dripping from them. "I know you've never seen a true battle, Ser───" as he passes, Aegon gives his shoulder a rough push "───but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn't something anyone should expect."

                    "Blades up." Jace gives Ser Harwin one last pleading look, but the knight can only shake his head. He cannot intervene, not even for the sake of a son. As his gaze flits back to Aegon, whose sword is already held up by his head, poised to strike, he catches sight of a servant with curly brown hair exiting one of the courtyard doors ─── he pauses for a moment, thinking it's Lyanna.

                    She turns her head, revealing features he doesn't recognise. He's ever so slightly disappointed, for some reason, but has no time to think on that as Ser Criston gives the order: "Engage," and Aegon rushes towards him.

                    There is very little time to think. The sword is swinging straight towards his head ─── his neck, actually, and while it won't slice him it will surely bruise and leave his breathing tender for days ─── instinctively, he puts the wooden sword up in the air between them. The force makes him step back on one leg to keep upright. Very quickly, Aegon has him on the defensive, grunting and towering over him with a flurry of swings. It's all Jace can do to keep the blows from reaching him, and eternally scurrying backwards.

                    He blocks. Aegon reaches out with his spare hand and forces him to the ground ─── all the air in his lungs is knocked from him, and Jace is groaning, his own sword still clutched in his hands. The ground is rough and musty and he tries to force down the waves of pain. Aegon leers, laughing.

                    He's laughing. Now Jacaerys knows how Aemond Targaryen feels ─── and now rage makes him stand, makes him walk and run, and lets that cry be ripped from him.

                    A vicious swipe to the older boy's chest, which he can barely stand back from. Another, and another. When it comes to it, Jace would later realise, boys become beasts when pressed. When humiliated. Aegon's face is something to remember, eyes wide and brows raised, with fear beginning to creep onto his Targaryen features as Jace does not let up. He is unbalanced, wobbling, struggling to block every hit.

                    Finally, Aegon parries then ducks, skirting around the dummy and toppling it onto Jace.

                    Ser Harwin steps in, an accusatory finger pointed at the prince. "Foul play. I'll deal with him."

                    Ser Cole deals with Aegon, telling him to use his height to his advantage ─── Ser Harwin puts his hand reassuringly on Jace's chin, asking if he is hurt. Jace shakes his head with a small smile. Ser Harwin almost looks proud of him.

                    "You!" Aegon shrieks; Jace is quick to push Ser Harwin away from him ─── this is his fight, not anyone else's ─── and resume.

                    Jace meets Aegon's fury with a fire on his own, though he is on the defensive again. He now looks for any exposed points he can work into while they spar, occasionally managing, but it becomes clear that what Cole is saying is working. While Aegon advances on him he barks out orders, watching the fight. His previously unfazed expression grows more and more invested, and his voice louder. "Close with him. Press him backward! Close with him!"

                    Ser Harwin watches as well, but he does not try to intervene.

                    Their swords meet and in a fell swoop Aegon has parried them to the side ─── "Stay on the attack! Use your feet!" ─── and kicks him squarely in the chest. Jace is helpless again, tumbling back onto the ground, but now there is no rage to pick him back up. There is only fear.

                    "Don't let him get up." Cole commands, and Aegon, ever the pawn, doesn't. Now he brings the sword down on him over and over, and Jace has to watch as his face contorts and wonder if he might cave in his skull with the force behind those blows. He knocks the sword to the side and finally, Jace is completely exposed ─── but when he draws his sword above his head, Ser Harwin comes from behind and grasps him, stopping him, and discarding the Prince onto the ground.

                    "You dare lay hands on me!" Aegon shouts, looking like he'd attack Ser Harwin ─── though he doesn't, he's not that stupid.

                    "You forget yourself, Strong. That is the prince." Criston Cole says, some snideness seeping into his voice.

                    "This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?" He kneels, picking up the abandoned swords, but Jace thinks back to what his mother said ─── his voice, with that hint of a Northern accent, sounds inferior to Cole's elocution. And he realises that there are some battles you just can't win.

                    It doesn't matter what Ser Harwin says or even how he says it. Cole has the upper hand.

                    A fact proven when Cole makes another digging comment. "Your interest in the princeling's training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin, or a brother, or . . . a son."

                    Rage doesn't just control boys, it seems, but men too. Jace sees his expression switch, sees anger etch itself into his usually kind expression, and he whips around, planting his fist squarely on Cole's cheekbone.

                    The princes back away, and Jace puts himself in front of Luke. Just in case. It's satisfying to watch as Cole is brought to the ground and beaten bloody. Ser Harwin is on top of him, bruising and bloodying ─── but with every hit, Ser Cole only laughs. Every impact between knuckles and faces only proves him right. Guards rush over to separate them, and it might be Cole with the bloody face but he isn't the one being restrained. He isn't the one daring him to say that again.

                    He is many things, but he isn't exactly losing right now.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

the red keep, king's landing.
summer, 127 ac.

                    ALICENT DOES SOMETIMES WISH SHE WERE CLOSER TO HER CHILDREN. Yet for all her attempts, there is a deep, unbridgeable void between them. Motherhood, the fabled dream of every girl, is more akin to a knife's edge than something that should come so easily to her. A razor thin line to toe, and Alicent Hightower lost her balance ago. It is all she can do to reach out around her, blind, and hope to clamber her way back up.

                    Really, though, she gave up hope a long time ago.

                    At least Aegon is easy to control ─── all she has to do is threaten to withhold the castle's supply of booze from him and make sure the servants don't allow it either; or take him to the Sept as she had done when he was younger. He doesn't pray any more, but sitting before those hundreds of candles with nothing but his own thoughts is harrowing for him. Daeron, her youngest, has been sent to serve as a cupbearer and squire to her cousin, Ormund, down in Oldtown. He must have grown by now, though he is a distant thought as there are always some kind of troubles in King's Landing to keep her from writing as she had promised to.

                    Helaena is an undisturbed sweetness incarnate, so quiet and introspective and content in her own silence that she doesn't need to have any such measures in place. She gravitates to her daughter above all her other children, though mostly out of principle for already feeling the pains of womanhood she tries to spare her from ─── no, Alicent will not involve her daughter in this.

                    She walks with Ser Criston, head held high, and listens as he complains about something or other ─── as they approach the courtyard, she dismisses him. He has made his grievances towards the archer who humiliated him known, and she doesn't want him present for this. Dress dusting the ground, she takes measured steps towards her sullen second son.

                    "Aemond," she greets.

                    He pauses. "Mother."

                    He was such a quiet child ─── came out of the womb barely breathing, not shrieking as healthy babes do. Perhaps that was a sign that he isn't meant for a dragon. Alicent may not understand her children that well, but this she knows. Aemond has grown more obsessive each year in the absence of being claimed by a dragon ─── and no matter how she consoles him, a mother's love ( or, Alicent's attempt at it ) simply cannot compare. It began with asking to see his siblings' dragons, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, and then with visits to the Dragonpit. Alicent may not love delicately, but she felt such a sharp pang of terror the first day he returned with ash in his hair and soot in his clothes. He could've been hurt. He could've died.

                    And yet still, he goes back. Unsuccessful each time, scorned by his brother and half-nephews ─── her thoughts sour thinking of those bastards. She wasn't there when he returned from the Pink Dread, but by the time she'd discovered what happened from Aegon and coaxed the details of his reaction from Helaena, it had been too late. He moved on. His interest is reserved only for a few select things, and by the time she figures them out he's already moved onto the next. The only constant is swordplay, and she understands that to some extent. What boy doesn't like to play knight?

                    She folds her hands over themselves. "There is something that needs to be done."

                    He is the only one remaining in the courtyard after that morning ─── a morning that has set the castle alight with rumour, and other than Ser Strong laying hands on her son, every single piece of gossip has made her want to grin from ear to ear. Finally, Rhaenyra Targaryen faces the consequences for so brazenly flouting duty.

                    She is out of place in the courtyard. Alicent's strength lies in her devious tongue, sharp mind, and slender frame. Not the armour and steel her son immerses himself in. He twirls the wooden sword between his fingers and thrusts it right into the neck of the dummy. She purses her lips. "I want you to befriend Lyanna," she says.

                    "Who?" Aemond doesn't miss a single beat, neither in speech nor in swing.

                    "Lyanna. The archer." He gives no sign that he has acknowledged her, but she continues: "It's important."

                    "That alone gets him to stop. "Why?" He scoffs, genuinely asking. "She's common. No more important than dust in the air, and I have training to do."

                    Alicent watches him, trying to give her face some of the proper animation expected from her. "You will do it because I tell you to. Someday you will understand."

                    He glares up to the sky but sets down his sword, turning. It's something she's started to say a lot more recently, as her sons no longer obey her so willingly. He is older now, keener, and more intelligent. But for now, this will suffice. "Why me? Why not Aegon?"

                    She almost laughs at that. "You know Aegon, he would fuck her first chance he gets. You have patience he does not."

                    "Fine," Aemond says dully, turning back to the dummy, "I will do it."

                    Yet, he forgets about his promise within the next hour.

⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹ ⭒ ➷ ⭒ ➹⭒

red keep, king's landing.
summer, 127 ac.

                    AGAIN, THAT SUBTLE FEELING OF BEING WATCHED. As Lyanna is informed that she is being given a great duty in the responsibility for the order of the private chambers of Rhaenyra Targaryen and her family ─── an honour reserved usually for the most trusted maids and handmaidens ─── she can't help but feel this has been engineered somehow. A few weeks ago, she was but a nameless girl. Now, she is . . . relevant in some way, and she's not sure what to think or feel about this.

                    Even Tarra is not as hateful as usual, studying her curiously. Searching for what it is, exactly, that makes her so noteworthy now. Because the Princess and the Queen now both know her name, as do their children. They see her now, they notice her in passing ─── no nods, no waves, of course not ─── there is that flicker behind the eyes of recognition. It means she's going up in the world, but it also means there's less places to hide.

                    They are out now, for an evening walk of the battlements. Yet while Jacaerys Velaryon is seeking her out, he is surprised to see her. "What are you doing here?"

                    "Tidying." She says, not liking how timid her voice sounds.

                    Her head is bowed as she folds sheets. She keeps to the corner, ashamed it has taken her this long to do a very simple task. There is that innate feeling, as she works diligently, that she does not belong here ─── and she really doesn't. These are private chambers, and she is trusted to be here and not be seen. Yet he has seen her, and seems intent on talking to her anyway.

                    "Oh," he says, dark brows raised. Is he really that clueless? Did he think the room was kept tidy by itself? He cannot be that blind, surely. "By the way, where did you learn to shoot?"

                    Lyanna wishes she could ignore him; she bites the inside of her cheek anxiously, harshly enough to taste copper. "I had to, Prince Jacaerys. And I will be done with this soon." She adds meaninglessly ─── he doesn't seem to care about the sheets.

                    Jacaerys seems confused at that, taking some pastries from a plate on the table and sinking onto a chair, eating while watching her work diligently. It's very easy to resent highborns, but less so with him. "You can't not have been taught by somebody."

                    Lyanna pauses, setting her work down and looking up and making eye contact for the first time since he walked into the room. "Have you ever been hungry, my prince?"

                    "I mean, a bit."

                    She almost wants to smile at how sheltered he is ─── they're both four and ten, both born in summer; and yet he has lived a life of luxury and she has only ever served beneath it. Lyanna inhales, sinking to her knees to put the folded sheets in the chest. "So have you ever woken up knowing that if you don't hit the target you won't eat today? Or tomorrow?"

                    He is still looking at her, but more curiously now. She has felt like a specimen before such eyes, but they are usually lilac or a lot more cruel. And there is something turning behind them. It's odd, really, because for the first time in her life Lyanna feels seen.

                    "No."

                    "Then you should count yourself lucky, Prince Jacaerys."

                    He swallows, setting down the plate with a small frown. "I don't feel lucky. My father, he ───" Jacaerys cuts himself off briefly, eyes widening in guilt and shame, but then he sighs and rolls his shoulders back. "I think he is leaving tonight."

                    She knows what this calls for: sympathy. A gentle hand on his shoulder. A kind word or two ─── but it's a trap, isn't it? For him to get closer to her, and closer, until surrendering herself to him feels like her own decision. Lyanna cannot let that happen again, and only stands sharply. "At least you've a father, my Prince. You have something to be sad about losing."

                    Jacaerys doesn't have much to say to that. He doesn't get angry, as she'd expect, or even disappointed that she didn't take the bait. Just . . . upset; a boy who knows he will not see his father for a long, long time. Shame floods her cheeks and remorse is a heavy weight in the back of her throat. "I didn't mean that. Forgive me."

                    "Sure," he says tonelessly. Silence hangs between them for quite a while, in which Lyanna busies herself with tidying the room. Making sure the ornaments are in the right place and the pillows are plumped ─── she finds herself making unconscious excuses to stay a little longer.

                    She repositions the cloth over her head, and smooths down her maid's attire before leaving. As she casts a long look around the room, something catches her eye. In the corner, there's an unfinished tapestry. She can make out the figure of a girl, with silver-blonde hair and eyes of the purest lilac ─── a very familiar girl, if she's honest. Lyanna gravitates towards it, running a finger along the unfinished lines.

                    "Is this your mother?" She asks cautiously.

                    Jacaerys glances over from the book he had begun to read. "When she was younger, I think."

                    At that, her mouth goes dry but at the same time something just clicks. "I'd best be on my way, my Prince."

                    And then she's running down the corridors, almost bumping into other passing servants ─── though they merely assume she is late to some duty. Lyanna rushes down the stairs, footsteps echoing down the hall and almost tripping over her long, shapeless skirt. Down towards the courtyard and the tree of blood red leaves adorning it. Instead of kneeling to pray as she normally would, Lyanna looks directly into those carved eyes. Brown gazing upon brown.

                    It's unsettling. If she looks too hard, they stare back ─── she presses her palms against the wooden bark, feeling every groove and crack. "Show me something. Please," she mutters almost feverishly ─── the wheels of her mind are turning and her theory, however outlandish, seems to be making sense. "Tell me I'm not going mad."

                    These eyes, these eyes of the Heart Tree could've seen what she saw. And they could've seen so much more ─── yet, the ravens are silent. She stays there for as long as she can, later shouted at for neglecting duty, but Lyanna remains firmly where and when she is.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 :
( 4,466 words ! )

oh  em gee  lyanna might  just be starting  to
figure  things out !!  i mean, of course  the <3
tree is going to be inconvenient with visions
because brynden rivers, but she is going the
right sort of way ── though not sure if she's
going mad. trust  that lyanna & helaena will 
get along like this🤞we also  had jace being
perceptive  with the fight  with aegon ( may i
repeat my previous statement : fuck u cole ) 
and then in the chambers i wasn't sure how 
to have him react to lyanna clocking him abt
his privilege, a recurring theme, but i hope it
seemed ok. this one is  mainly unedited  and
 far  from my favourite, mostly  following  the
show or the epigraph. 

coming up next in ch.6 : lyanna learns about 
what rhaenyra has to put up with, more time
spent with her and hylli, and we finally  get a
bit of interaction  between rhaenyra  and her
half-sister helaena <33

───e.