Ser Harrold Westerling — 112 AC, The Red Keep, Training Grounds.
"That, my ser," the boy prince said, pointing toward the vast ocean, "is the sixth most beautiful thing I have seen in all my life."
Ser Harrold chuckled at the lad's solemn tone and drew steel as the prince mirrored him. "A fair sight indeed, my prince. Yet now I must ask—what are the five others that surpass it?"
"Why, of course," Jaehaerys replied, raising his blunted blade, "my aunt Aemma Arryn, your queen, my aunts Gael Targaryen and Viserra Targaryen, Rhaenyra—your duty once this is done—and Lady Alicent Hightower."
Harrold slashed downward, and the boy caught the stroke neatly upon his longsword. "My prince Jaehaerys, a man who thinks too much of Distractions will not long survive battle." He drew back and thrust toward the boy's heart.
"Careful, ser," the prince laughed, parrying and twisting the blade aside until his own edge rested at Harrold's neck. "Even blunted steel still leaves bruises. It seems age is catching you, ser."
Jaehaerys lowered his sword. "And how many times must I remind you? Call me Jaehaerys—or Jae."
Harrold straightened, his stance firm once more. "Until the king himself commands it, my prince, I dare not." He raised his blade again, smiling. "Now—again."
The sparring lasted nearly an hour, drawing men and women alike to watch. The men cheered, the women swooned.
"Get him, Ser Harrold!" "Strike true, my prince!" "Show him the strength of a knight!"
"Aww, look at that silky hair." "And those eyes—by the gods, those eyes."I'd bear his babes if he asked."
"The score stands ten to eleven in favor of Ser Harrold," Ser Steffon Darklyn called out.
These fools don't know I'm only fighting to keep from shaming myself, Harrold cursed inwardly. This boy—no, this monster of a prince—took up the blade at three years old and grows sharper with every day. If this continues, I'll be the one flat on my butt in every match, instead of these even tallies we scrape by now.
Before the prince's tenth name day, the bouts had been one-sided, Ser Harrold driving him hard through brutal training. He taught the boy every lesson he himself had wished for in youth. But once Jaehaerys turned ten, the ground began to shift. Where once Harrold had always stood triumphant, now the prince claimed victories of his own. In these contests, the first to gain two points clear of his opponent was declared the winner—and more often than not, Jaehaerys was closing the gap.
Harrold saw an opening at Jae's shoulder and struck.
Thump!
"And Ser Harrold takes the match!" Ser Steffon Darklyn proclaimed.
"Huff—" Harrold exhaled in relief, straightening to his full height. "Better luck next time, my prince." He offered his hand, broad and steady.
Jae clasped it firmly, squeezing with all his youthful strength. "You fought well, ser."
Harrold answered in kind, gripping back. "And you as well, my prince."
"It seems old age hasn't caught up with you yet." "And it seems you're yet to grow." "Your beard's gone all white." "You haven't even grown one, yet." "I never will, I like mine smooth and my jaw feels good." "It seems you'll forever be a kid then."
For a moment, their hands locked, neither yielding, before at last they released.
The prince cast a glance toward the cluster of ladies and gave them a wink. At once, the already swooning maidens grew faint with delight.
"Did you see? He winked at me!" "Fool, it was me he winked at." "I swear he wishes me to visit his chambers."
Ser Harrold bowed out and departed for his duties, leaving the yard quieter in his absence.
Jaehaerys turned at once to Ser Steffon Darklyn, mischief glinting in his eyes. "Your turn, ser."
Steffon let out a long sigh, as though already defeated, yet took up a practice blade all the same. "Seven save me," he muttered, "the prince is tireless."
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Viserys Targaryen — The Small Council
The lords rose as the king entered.
"So, my lords," Viserys said, lowering himself into the chair and placing his marble upon the table, "what troubles have we to discuss today? I pray it will not prove too wearying."
The council bowed before taking their seats.
"The villages upon the border of Blackwood and Bracken lands have seen a rise in strife," reported Lord Lyonel Strong. "Farms are being seized by men from Bracken's side. A Blackwood man, attempting to confront them, was struck down before his wife and daughter, who were then… dishonored and slain."
"Savages," Lord Beesbury muttered, aghast. "This feud between Blackwood and Bracken has claimed more lives than Aegon's Conquest and the Dornish rebellions combined."
"Those idiots themselves do not even know why they're fighting," Lord Corlys berated, his tone sharp with disdain. "A quarrel born centuries ago, passed down like a curse, and now they kill and rape over stones and dirt." He shook his head, the chains of Driftmark at his chest clinking faintly. "While they waste blood on the riverlands, it is the Crown that bears the stain of their savagery."
"The Brackens claim the Blackwoods instigated the quarrel, not they," Strong continued. "Alas, we have little proof either way."
"Your Grace," said Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand, "I advise we send word to Lord Tully. Let him dispatch knights and men-at-arms to investigate. In so doing, the Tullys may at last prove themselves worthy as Holders of the Trident."
Viserys gave a slow nod. "So be it. See it done."
"Your Grace," Lord Beesbury spoke up, shuffling his parchments, "the allocation of funds for the joint name day tourney of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Rhaenyra is settled. The preparations alone will cost some ten thousand gold dragons. Including the purses for the victors of the Melee and the Jousting, the sum rises nearer fifty thousand."
"Good. I'll not have any lord complaining of the arrangements," Viserys said with a smile. "By the Gods, I can scarcely believe Rhaenyra turns fifteen and Jaehaerys thirteen."
"Children grow in the blink of an eye, Your Grace," Otto added smoothly. "Why, my own Alicent reached fourteen faster than I could have dreamt."
"True enough," Viserys chuckled, leaning back.
From there, the council drifted into lesser matters, their talk circling trifles and petty squabbles of little weight.
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Alicent Hightower — Godswood
Alicent looked down at Rhaenyra, who was lying across her lap and railing against her septa and the tedium of her duties. Absentmindedly, Alicent's fingers played with the princess's silver hair.
"Alicent, are you even listening?" Rhaenyra asked, sitting up suddenly. When Alicent failed to answer at once, she tugged her hair back with a pout. "You're not."
"I was telling you how I cannot bear all the boys staring at me, and you weren't even paying attention," Rhaenyra huffed.
"Every man in the realm will want a beauty like you, Rhaenyra. How long do you think you can hide from betrothals?" Alicent countered gently. "My father has already received seven offers for me—seven. Even Lord Frey has asked me to wed his heir. I spent half the night writing replies in his stead." After all, I only wish for one— my Jae.
Before Rhaenyra could retort, a voice called from the Godswood's edge.
"What are you two plotting now? Ah—good, my favorite spot is empty. Training was dreadful."
Both girls' faces lit up as Prince Jaehaerys appeared, fresh from the yard and still damp from his bath. He flopped down at once into Alicent's lap, which she offered gladly, running her fingers through his hair in gentle strokes.
"Hey! Don't ignore me. That was my spot," Rhaenyra protested, trying to shove him off. But the prince only groaned and stayed put.
"Fine then," she pouted, curling beside him instead, resting her head on his stomach as though it were a pillow.
"Ugh, Rhaenyra, my muscles are sore. Please, let me sleep." Jaehaerys shifted but did not move. "Give me one hour, and I'll move. I'll even give you my cake at luncheon. You two can chatter till then."
"Done," Rhaenyra agreed at once, her sulk vanishing.
Alicent only smiled, still stroking his hair as though he were the only thing in the world that mattered—because to her, he was.
Alicent paid Rhaenyra little mind, her gaze fixed upon the sleeping face of the man she loved. She answered only when the princess pressed her with a question, until at last Rhaenyra, too, drifted into slumber upon the grass beside them.
"My princess, here you are! I told you to avoid this barbaric place—" Septa Marlow's shrill voice rang out as she spied her wayward charge. "Lady Alicent, you—"
Alicent raised a finger to her lips, silencing her, then pointed down at the silver-haired prince resting in her lap. The septa blanched, her words dying at once. She turned pale, bowed her head, and departed in silence, unwilling to disturb the dragon in repose.
Alicent returned to her quiet devotion, her fingers combing through Jaehaerys's hair in gentle strokes before her own lids grew heavy, and she drifted to sleep against the tree.
Time passed, and Rhaenyra stirred, waking her and mumbling something about water before wandering off.
A maid arrived soon after. "My lady, the meal is ready."
Alicent nodded, and the girl withdrew. Glancing about and finding the Godswood empty, Alicent bent low, brushing her lips against Jaehaerys's brow, then his cheek, again and again until his eyes fluttered open.
"Five more minutes, Aly," he murmured.
"Lunch is ready, my love. And after, you must meet with your brother, remember?"
He groaned, then sat up at last, stealing a soft kiss from her lips. "I love you."
"I love you more."
He smiled, helping her rise and straightening her gown before they walked together back toward the Red Keep, hand in hand, their secret love veiled by the walls of the castle.
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Rhaenyra Targaryen
She watched as the couple walked away from the window below, her hands clutching tightly at the railing until her knuckles whitened.
"How long are you going to look at them, my niece?" a voice drawled from behind.
She turned sharply, meeting the eyes of her two great-aunts. "We had a deal," she said bitterly, "and at this rate, he won't even look at us at all. Alicent will take him away from us."
"Calm yourself, Rhaenyra," Gael murmured, stepping closer. She brushed a hand through her niece's hair, soothing as if to a child. "There is a reason Jae will not look at us."
"Yes, my lovely niece," Viserra added as she glided to the railing, her gaze drifting down toward the now-empty Godswood. "It isn't that he prefers her alone—it is that he does not think himself worthy of us. Truth be told, he does not even think himself worthy of Alicent. But she…" Viserra smirked faintly, "…she spent half her life convincing him otherwise. And we—" she paused, her eyes glinting, "—we were too late to realize it. I must give it to her… Alicent knows how to bend hearts."
"But why?" Rhaenyra pressed, her tone laced with disbelief. "He is the most sought-after man in all the Seven Kingdoms—the youngest dragonrider, rider of the great Antares. He is as beautiful as the sky itself."
Gael smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "That, my sweet niece, comes from Baelon. He was always humble, never raised his voice, nor stepped out of place. Jae carries that same quiet strength. Our sister's spirit never touched him—though her eyes, ah, those he inherited in full." Her gaze grew darker with lust. "If only her fire had come with them, I would have become a true woman long ago."
"He is still innocent, Gael." Viserra's voice was firmer, edged with something protective. "That is why Alicent guards him so carefully. She has his heart, yet she has never taken him to her bed. She knows the worth of preserving such purity. But Daemon… Daemon may not be so kind."
Rhaenyra turned sharply. "Uncle Daemon? Why? How could he ruin Jae's innocence?"
Viserra laughed bitterly. "Daemon was rutting by thirteen. He tried to bed me and Gael both—more than once. Too bad for him, our firsts were not so cheaply won." Her eyes gleamed. "I fear he will soon do to Jae what he could not do to us: press wine into his hand, and gift him some common whore to soil him."
Rhaenyra swallowed hard. "And you do nothing?"
"Not yet," Gael replied smoothly. "If we act, Viserys will smell it, and his pet snake will whisper the truth. Some things, niece, cannot be stopped."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed. "I never understood why the two of you remain maidens. You're well into your twenties… even thirties."
Viserra tilted her chin proudly. "Because no man has proven worthy. Once, they nearly gave me to Lord Manderly, but Father ended it the moment I bonded Grey Ghost. Your grandmother whispered that counsel, I think." She swept toward the door with a smirk. "Come. It is time to eat."
"And as for me," Gael added, her eyes glinting, "your mother and Alyssa frightened off anyone bold enough to approach. Too bad for them. Their precious prize will be mine, in the end."
Rhaenyra lingered one last time at the Godswood, gazing at the place where Jaehaerys and Alicent had lain, before turning and following after them.
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Jaehaerys Targaryen
"That's enough, sweet Aly—my hair will fall off if you comb it any harder." Jaehaerys flailed half-heartedly as Alicent worked the comb through his silver locks. "I'm only going to announce the recruitment and share a drink with Daemon, nothing more."
"Sit still, Jae." Alicent tied his hair neatly, smoothing it down with care. "There. All done." She brushed his shoulders, satisfied. "Your birthday is in a week. Lords, ladies, and knights from across the Seven Kingdoms will be coming. I need my man to look better than anyone in the hall."
"Fine, fine." He grumbled, then caught her slender waist, pulling her close. His chin came to rest on her pale, smooth neck. "I don't need to look good for anyone except you… and family."
Her hands cradled his head where it rested. "I love holding you like this, darling. But the King, Queen, and the princesses are waiting."
"Hah," he sighed, melting into her warmth, "let me enjoy myself for a minute, woman."
Alicent chuckled and kissed the side of his head. "Don't be so selfish." She pulled his face back to hers and kissed him deeply, their tongues locked in a slow battle for dominance. When at last she broke away, breathless, she whispered, "Now come."
"You taste sweet as always." "Shush." "Fine."
Hand in hand, they made their way toward the dining hall.
As they entered, Jaehaerys saw everyone already gathered, even the Hand, Otto Hightower. He gave a nod to his aunts before taking his place beside Rhaenyra; Alicent settled at his left.
"Jae, I heard of your venture from Aemma," Viserys said from the head of the table. "I've asked Lord Beesbury to arrange five thousand dragons to aid you. Ask Daemon to lend some men, if you need them."
"Thank you, brother." Jaehaerys glanced at the lemon cake neatly placed beside his plate. "Here is what I promised." He slid it across the table toward Rhaenyra and watched her eyes light up.
His gaze swept the table. King Viserys sat at the head, Rhaenyra at his right. Jaehaerys himself sat beside her, with Alicent at his left. Opposite the King sat Otto Hightower—her father, soon to be his father-in-law if all went as he hoped. Across from Jaehaerys sat his aunts: Aemma, Gael, and Viserra.
"And what is this venture of yours, nephew?" Gael asked, tilting her head. "Or do you mean to keep it a secret?"
"No secret, dearest aunt." Jaehaerys raised his cup and sipped before continuing. "I mean to form something I call the Blue Dragon Guild. I'll announce the call today. Any man or woman who wishes to join must first prove themself in the coming melee and place within the fifty best. Those chosen, I shall train for six months more, while seeking out others of worth myself. Each sworn man will bear the guild's mark, so none may doubt his station. Then, merchants or travelers—whether they ride the kingsroad or sail the narrow sea—may hire them for escort. Simple, yes, but sorely needed." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Once we have enough coin, I'll set a merchant branch to trade in wares from the kingdoms and beyond Essos."
"An excellent design, nephew." Viserra leaned forward with a smile. "Would you mind if Gael and I lent you our skills? I've a head for numbers and the trick of dealing with men, while Gael knows her way about maps better than most maesters."
Jaehaerys inclined his head. "I would be glad of it. Thank you, Aunt Viserra."
"What say you, Otto?" Viserys asked, turning to his Hand. "Perhaps you might spread word that second or third sons,—or even bastards—might see fit to join."
Otto nodded gravely. "A wise thought, your Grace. I will send word to the Citadel. They will be pleased to lend Prince Jaehaerys their support."
"Hmph." Rhaenyra pouted, arms folding. "You schemed all this and did not tell me a word."
Jaehaerys only looked at the maid setting down a fresh lemon cake. He drew it close, then slid it across toward her. Rhaenyra turned her face away in mock defiance, but only for a heartbeat.
"I told them to make it extra sweet this time," he said softly.
Without a word, she seized the plate and began to eat. Laughter rippled around the table.
"Be careful, Jae," Aemma said gently, laying her hand atop his. "Make certain the men you choose are worthy and clean. You can never be too sure."
He patted her hand and nodded. "I will, Aunt."
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Daemon Targaryen(r18)
Daemon Targaryen leaned back against the cushions, a faint, cruel smile playing on his lips as he watched the two whores attend to him. His fingers were tangled in the silver hair of the one whose mouth serviced his cock, forcing her head down to the base. With his other hand, he guided the dark-haired girl's mouth to his balls. Once they had found the rhythm he desired, he released his grip and settled back to enjoy their efforts.
Mysaria, the most exquisite whore he had ever laid eyes on, observed from beside him. Her own hand snaked out, gripping the silver-haired girl's head and pushing it down to set a more punishing pace. She spoke, her voice a seductive whisper laden with the accent of Lys. "Why do you not let me service you, my prince?" she murmured. "I could give you a hundred times the pleasure."
He had not taken her to his bed in a month. A low grunt was his only reply as he spent himself without warning deep in the silver-haired whore's throat, making her choke and sputter. "I am saving you," he said, his voice rough. "For my brother. He turns three-and-ten next week."
The whores paused, a sudden, tense silence filling the room. "Clean me," he commanded, and they immediately resumed their work, tongues lapping to clear him of his own seed.
As he enjoyed their ministrations, he watched the calculation ignite behind Mysaria's eyes. I never thought to sleep with another man after Daemon, she thought, not since I came to Westeros.
He read her expression perfectly. "I want the best for him," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are the best I know. So he will have you." With that, he bent over, pushing the silver-haired whore down onto the dark-haired one beneath her. He took her from behind, his hand cracking sharply against her buttock while the black-haired one tended to his balls.
"Ugh! Harder, my prince!" the whore cried out. "Right there! Slap me again!"
In one swift motion, he wrenched her head back by her hair, arching her body painfully and forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his cold violet gaze. He slapped her across the face, the mark of his hand blazing red on her cheek. "Do not tell me what to do," he hissed, then spat in her face before shoving her down and driving into her with renewed, brutal force.
"Ugh! Yes! Yes! Yes!" she moaned, his violence only stoking her fervor.
He rode her until he found his release, spilling into her womb before finally pulling out. He pushed the spent silver-haired girl toward his softening cock, and she dutifully licked him clean. Then, he dragged the dark-haired, blue-eyed whore to him, spreading her legs in a single, rough motion and entering her once more.
His eyes flicked to Mysaria as she rose. Without a backward glance, she walked out, the deliberate sway of her hips only made him thrust harder into the woman beneath him.