Chapter Text
“King Viserys ruled the lands ought to belong to House Bracken.”
It was Jasper Wylde who had spoken. Jace looked at him with faint disgust, not much troubling himself to hide it.
Ironrod sat on the Queen’s council just as he had done for the late King Viserys. He had never once said or done anything truly reprehensible, but one could sense a foulness underneath his comported demeanour. Jace had misliked the alpha for some time, and of late, his temper wore thinner than before, as it was wont to do in his condition.
Mayhaps it was time his mother found herself a new master of laws, he thought idly. He might raise it with her when she returned.
It was an ordinary morning, uneventful save for the meeting of the small council. The queen’s councillors had assembled as they did each week to tend to the daily governance of the realm, even with Her Grace confined to her bedchambers.
Jace sat at the head of the table, the high-backed chair where Queen Rhaenyra would sit were she not confined to Maegor’s Holdfast. The maesters had ordered her to bedrest, her pregnancy having grown too taxing to permit her the long stairs and the labour sitting the throne demanded. Daemon remained close to her side, leaving the daily tedium of governance to Jace, who had been newly appointed as Hand of the Queen.
It was a high honour, and he was filled with pride at the trust she placed in him, yet he found himself missing her presence at his side. He could seek her counsel upstairs if he truly needed it, but she was exhausted, and he was loath to burden her even if her guidance was something he pined for more than ever of late—and more as mother than as queen.
The matter the council discussed at present was a strip of riverland meadow along the Red Fork. Jace’s grandsire had once given judgment that the land ought to belong to the Brackens, slighting their eternal enemy, the Blackwoods. He had done so after a season of raids and much bloodshed between neighbouring houses. Now, after more recent conflict, Lord Oscar Tully had ordered the use divided: grazing to the Brackens, fishing and river rights to the Blackwoods. He had informed the crown of this decision by raven.
Jace could not see why they were still bickering over it. Lord Tully had done what a liege lord was meant to do. Should any discord come from his decision, then either Tully would settle it, or otherwise the council might discuss it then, when it became relevant.
“For the stripling to now favour the Blackwoods in his division is in direct conflict with the king’s decision,” Wylde continued.
Stripling. At eight and ten, Lord Tully was barely a year younger than Jace himself. They had called him boy lord twice over in the last hour. If the council considered him incapable of governance due to his young age, Jace harboured no illusions about how they viewed him. Yet in his case, he knew their quiet disrespect was not solely born of his youth.
Jace recalled having met Tully some years before, not long after the lordship of the Trident had passed from the boy’s grandsire to him. He had been charming, and he had turned a fair portion of that charm upon Jace. Many alphas had sought to ingratiate themselves with the omega heir to the Iron Throne back then. Due to his status and omega presentation, he’d received many offers, and flatterers had been everywhere. The Jewel of the Realm they called him, an overly fawning sobriquet. Jace had not once seriously considered the implied suit because the alpha had reminded him too keenly of his younger brother Lucerys, and despite them being close in age, Jace considered the boy too young for him.
“Lord Tully is the Lord Paramount of the Trident,” Jace said. “It is well within his authority to make such decisions. I do not see that he has done amiss.”
“To overturn the decree of a king is to invite anarchy.”
Jace turned to face the speaker. It was not much effort; Aemond Targaryen sat at the other end of the table, directly across from him. It was more effort, Jace had found, not to look in that direction unduly. The persistent energy coming from that side of the room was like a tether pulling at his senses and making him acutely aware of the alpha’s presence. It was a constant, distracting undercurrent that required a conscious exertion of willpower to ignore.
His uncle held no official seat, but was admitted to the small council sessions as an advisor, as was his mother, the queen dowager. It was a token of goodwill extended to Rhaenyra’s half-brothers and their ilk, proof that old enmities had been buried. A necessary concession, mayhaps, yet it did mean Jace at times felt outnumbered.
The Hightowers had received a great many tokens of goodwill over the years.
Jace kept both hands upon the table rather than let one stray lower toward his middle as he had absent-mindedly longed to do. He would not draw attention to his condition needlessly. He could feel Ironrod’s eyes on him often enough without it, lingering beyond courtesy. The man had sired over twenty children by four different omegas, he recalled, and shuddered at the thought.
Jace huffed. “Anarchy?”
“If a Lord Paramount may revise the late King’s decision at his whim, then it is the Crown that is undermined,” his uncle continued. “Law must flow downward, not upward.”
Aemond had been sparing with his voice that morning until then, listening more than speaking. It surprised Jace not at all that he should choose this moment of all to speak. It was ever his habit to come at him sideways in council, to test, to needle, to take the opposite bank because Jace had planted his banner on the first. Except in those rarer moments when they found themselves aligned.
“It sets a dangerous precedent,” agreed Alicent.
Beesbury, the master of coin, frowned at the parchment before him, either in thought or because of his ageing sight. Lord Corlys’s seat next to him was empty, as it often was. Alicent sat on the other side of the table, opposite Wylde. Besides her sat Grand Maester Gerardys.
“There was nought to suggest Viserys’s ruling was meant to be a permanent, unchangeable one,” countered Jace. “Lord Tully showed proper deference by writing a letter to inform the crown of his decision. If he has found a means by which both houses may make use of what they have long quarrelled over, then so be it.”
Aemond steepled his fingers. “The division is no remedy for quarrels. Tully has only given them fresh cause for strife,” he explained condescendingly. “Where once the boundary kept the feuding families separate, this shared use compels them into one another’s company, and conflict is the certain result. It would have been far wiser to leave it be. Then they need not cross paths and be at each other’s throats.”
Jace had considered this himself, in truth. The Brackens and Blackwoods required no great cause to kill one another. They required only proximity, and now they would have more. “That may be so,” he said. “Yet that feud will outlast any decree this council might issue. Your father's judgment did not end it. It bought a season of quiet and little else. Likely this one will neither, but Tully knows his land and knows his men better than we do. It seems to me he is better placed to manage them. I am sure he must have weighed these arguments and decided that this was a better or more fair option.”
Aemond regarded him in silence for a moment, then spoke lowly and accusatively. “You seem to have a striking confidence in the boy to defend him so ardently.”
One could always tell when Aemond’s temper rose. It showed first in the hardening of his jaw, then in the flattening of his mouth, until at last even the practised aloofness of his features could not quite contain it. His countenance became less glacially amused and more openly severe. And his voice, often dispassionate and soft to a near soothing degree, grew in volume.
“Who is to say he has not weighed his options poorly? You are willing to forgive him his presumption, his inexperience, and the disorder that is like to follow.”
Jace fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Lord Tully has done nothing that warrants this contempt. Nor have I offered him any defence beyond reason. From all I have seen of him, he is nowhere near as witless as you try to paint him.”
“From all you have seen of him,” Aemond repeated.
“Aemond,” Alicent said quietly.
The alpha rose from his seat. It was not a violent motion, but sudden all the same. He looked around the room, glancing at the other council members with an insincere, taunting smirk, his eye intense and near bulging. “If Lord Tully is so admirably capable, as His Grace would have us believe, then we ought to summon him to King’s Landing and grant him a seat on the council.”
“You are being utterly ridiculous.” Mirroring the alpha, Jace too rose to his feet. Too abruptly for Gerardys’s liking, for the maester half-rose beside him at once and reached as if to steady him.
Jace made a dismissive motion toward the man. He misliked it very much when people fluttered about him as though he were made of glass, treating him as entirely fragile and incapable of managing his own body. It was a patronising sort of coddling he had been forced to endure his entire life to a degree, yet now the constant hovering had grown worse than ever, grating on his nerves and threatening to undermine his authority.
Under his breath, though not so low that anyone failed to hear it, Wylde muttered, “This quarrel seems better suited to the bedchambers than the council chamber.”
Aemond turned his head sharply toward the man. “What did you say, Lord Jasper?” he demanded menacingly, offence cutting clear through whatever else had possessed him.
Beesbury had gone quite still, and Gerardys looked deeply uncomfortable.
“Enough,” Alicent said firmly. Her gaze swept the table with open displeasure and landed on Jacaerys. “Is this council governed by children? Let us keep to the matter at hand.”
It was not her place to chide him, nor to assume the authority of keeping order when that duty belonged to him alone. Alicent had ruled for years in her husband’s stead, and perhaps the habit was hard to break, but Jace was neither ailing nor helpless. It was humiliating, besides. He was perfectly capable of maintaining a grip on himself and his council. It was only Aemond who seemed singularly determined to pry it from his hands.
An even darker thought formed. With Rhaenyra confined to her bedchambers, it was not a wild thought that mayhaps the beta saw an opportunity to claw back the authority she had lost once Rhaenyra took her chair. Her young omega son must appear an easy mark, and she was like to try and use their respective conditions as leverage to reassert her dominance.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, mastering himself by force, and turned a baleful glare upon the alpha in front of him. Having calmed himself, Jace then looked at Alicent and spoke in an even and calm tone, “If Lord Tully revised the matter at all, mayhaps it is because King Viserys’s judgment was never fit to serve as a lasting answer. My grandsire wished first to quiet the bloodshed before him. He had a gift for making peace. None shall deny this. But he prized it to a degree that was overindulgent at times.” He then turned to look at her son, knowing he was like to find agreement there on this matter at least. Jace knew well enough Aemond’s feelings about his own sire’s fondness for avoiding conflict. “Peace for one year may not always carry on to the next.”
Some edge of Aemond’s temper seemed to erode at the invocation of his father’s failings. Yet he remained standing, a tall, severe pillar at the end of the table.
Jace held his ground at the head. He would not be the first to take his seat.
“Overindulgent or no, His Grace made a ruling,” Ironrod countered.
“Indeed. We are not debating Lord Tully’s wit, nor his capabilities,” said Alicent, “or even whether his decision was a shrewd one. That is beside the point. The question is whether he has the right to contravene a royal judgment.”
That Alicent should disagree with him was no surprise. That Ironrod should do so was less surprising still. What was surprising was that they would agree. The queen dowager and Jasper Wylde had spent years dissenting from one another on matters great and small, and disliking each other with a firmness so constant that Jace had at times found it one of the more dependable comforts of council. To see them aligned now was unnatural enough to put him further out of temper.
“He has not contravened it,” said Jace. “If every ditch, field, and riverbank dispute must be carried here for royal settling, what use is he at Riverrun? We set lords paramount above their bannermen so they may govern them. If we do not allow them this, then soon, they will bring every petty squabble over a stolen sheep or a shifted fence post directly to the steps of the Iron Throne. We cannot govern the whole of the realm if the lords act like children running to their mother’s skirts to settle their disputes.”
Aemond smirked faintly at that, but then again, perhaps it had only appeared that he had. Jace could never be sure. Aemond’s mouth seemed to naturally do that; pull at one corner. It was a trick his face sometimes played. Amusement and disdain were forever wrangling there.
“Lords paramount are not little kings,” said Alicent. “They govern by leave of the Crown, and that leave is bounded by law and precedent. On the morrow, another lord will claim the same liberty in some matter of greater weight, and with less courtesy than a letter sent after the fact.”
It felt as though they were talking in circles. Jace resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If he did so, then Alicent would have the right of it. He did not want it to be said that he behaved like a spoiled boy during such meetings.
“The king is dead,” Jace said. “We have a queen now. If the Crown sees fit to approve Lord Tully’s division, then there is no insult done and little more to say on the subject.”
“Yes.” Maester Gerardys nodded hastily. “I am inclined to agree with Prince Jacaerys.”
Beesbury cleared his throat, grateful, no doubt, to hear something that sounded like an end to this trivial matter. “Lord Tully has informed us and done his due diligence, and it seems none of us can find direct fault with his ruling in itself. I say we move on to other matters.”
Jace’s gratitude was quickly overturned when a sudden, rolling wave of nausea pitched through his stomach. For a dreadful second, he feared his breaking fast might make an unwelcome return right there. His fingers curled against the edge of the table to steady himself, and willed his face to show nothing of his discomfort.
Jace still lacked a true majority at the table, but he did not truly need one. His voice carried the authority of the queen. What he decreed would pass, regardless of Ironrod's sourness or Alicent’s displeasure. Still, he knew well enough that it was always more prudent to govern with the council’s consensus rather than ruling over it by brute force.
Still standing, he looked toward Aemond.
Aemond looked away from Jace when he spoke. “We are wasting our breath on a trifle,” he declared. “If the trout boy wishes to play wet nurse to the Brackens and Blackwoods, and reap the inevitable discord, let him. We have more pressing matters to attend to.” With that, he lowered himself back into his chair. It was a stark contradiction to the fierce argument he had waged only moments before.
Jace felt a profound sense of relief wash over him. “Thank you, husband,” he said pointedly and took his own seat. He could feel Alicent glare daggers at his head.
Just as quickly as the nausea began to subside, a new and insistent pressure made itself known against his bladder. He adjusted his posture to ease the ache, though it did little good. He would have to endure it. He could not excuse himself from the chamber now, not after having just fought to reassert his grip over the room.
The matter of the riverlands was at last swept away as Beesbury mentioned the costs of the upcoming festivities; the Red Keep was to host a grand banquet in honour of the imminent arrival of Lord Corlys Velaryon and his heir. The Sea Snake and Lucerys were presently voyaging at sea, but their return was expected before the moon's turn. Logistics of the feast were soon overtaken by another matter, as Wylde soon interrupted Beesbury.
Luke had presented as an alpha some two years before, to the surprise of many. While omegas were rare, and male omegas even more so, they were less rare in the Targaryen family tree. It had long been thought Luke might follow in his elder brother’s footsteps and present as one due to his gentle (meek) temperament. And if not that, then a beta surely. But instead, Luke had gone through a considerable growth spurt and presented as the traditionally stronger, more assertive designation. He was nearing eight and ten, yet no marriage or betrothal had been announced.
“The boy is coming of age,” said Wylde “Plenty lords and ladies from across the realm will be present at the feast, loyal vassals to the crown. After the successful alliance you yourself have secured, my prince, they may be hoping to hear of a betrothal outside the family. It would be an opportune moment to announce a match.”
It was no coincidence he had raised this matter now, while the Sea Snake was away from the capital and his seat remained empty. Not the realm’s stability, but binding House Velaryon and the royal family to one’s own kin or political allies was the true prize. Jace was certain the master of laws had his ulterior motives. Mayhaps he maintained favour with certain lords.
Such scheming and politicking readily brought to mind Ser Otto Hightower, who had been dismissed and sent back to Oldtown by Rhaenyra when she ascended the throne. Men of their ilk possessed an appetite for influence that Jacaerys considered limitless.
The plotting was entirely in vain. It had long been known within the family that Luke would marry Rhaena. There had been no official announcement or declaration, and there would be none until Luke summoned the courage to finalise years of longing and bashful courting and asked the girl.
The pressure in Jace’s bladder worsened. He gritted his teeth. “The betrothal of the Queen’s son is not a matter for this council to decide. Nor will any possible arrangements be discussed without the prince himself, or Her Grace, present.”
“I meant no presumption,” said Wylde with no apology in his tone whatsoever, “I only thought there might be value to raising the subject with the queen when next you visit her.”
“I shall certainly consider it.” Jace would do no such thing, of course.
But Wylde would not be silenced. “If Her Grace would strengthen the realm by outward alliance, the ladies Baela and Rhaena Targaryen are also of an age to be wed. Lady Baela Targaryen is an alpha, and Borros Baratheon of Storm’s End has omega daughters of suitable age. The Iron Islands as well remain troublesome by nature. A marriage between Lady Rhaena and the young Dalton Greyjoy might do much to bridle them.”
Presumptuous and no good. Baela had remained unmarried until now for good reason; because she’d wished to be. And his sweet sister Rhaena would not be sold off to be one of a dozen wives to some unwashed marauder. No man at that table believed Rhaena would ever be sent to Pyke, of course. Wylde least of all. It was a naked trick, the suggestion grotesque enough to make whatever came before or after seem reasonable. It was a clumsy, transparent mummer's farce.
“You are aware, Lord Jasper,” said Aemond before Jace could make his displeasure evident, “that my cousin’s egg hatched not long ago? Surely even you are not witless enough to hand a dragon over to a reaver?”
Lord Jasper swallowed. “It was merely an example, my prince. A foolish one, mayhaps.”
“Foolish, yes. That is an understatement,” Aemond said derisively. “The blood of the dragon marries among ourselves for a reason.” He turned to look at Jace and held his stare for a moment, then looked away again. “Dragons are not to be bartered and scattered around the realm. They are our power and greatest resource.”
Wylde lowered his head, suitably chastised.
Jace was careful to mask his relief at having the alpha fight this particular battle for him. Soon after, he seized the opportunity to formally draw the proceedings to a close.
~
The marriage between Jacaerys Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen was a political one, forged from necessity.
When the Queen had ascended the Iron Throne after her father’s ailing health had at last failed him, there still remained an ever-looming shadow over her rule: whether they wanted or no, Aegon, Aemond, and Daeron represented a perpetual threat to her legitimacy, and many still believed a succession crisis was soon to follow. Simply demanding fealty from the Hightowers and giving nothing in return would never secure a lasting peace. It would remain brittle and fragile under any circumstances, but a gesture of goodwill could only help. And so binding the two branches through marriage was the practical solution–or so Jace had reasoned when he’d brought the proposal to his mother.
The most pragmatic option would, naturally, have been a marriage between Jacaerys and Aegon, uniting the heir apparent with the primary challenger. Yet that match had been refused many years afore, and Aegon had long since been wed to his sister Helaena. That left them with Aemond, the second son.
Even if such a match was less ideal on paper, Jace would be remiss to admit that he was not the tiniest bit relieved that Aegon had been unavailable, for he could scarce think of a crueller fate than to bear the mating mark and be bound for life to his eldest uncle. The alpha was slothful, vulgar, and almost certainly incapable of remaining faithful. Besides, Aemond would make a far more suitable consort. For all his many defects, he was at least not so feckless and a great deal more studied than his elder brother. Whether he would make a fine husband and mate was another matter, and one Jace had elected not to dwell upon overmuch.
Jacaerys and Aemond had never shared fondness for one another, which was putting it charitably. It mattered not. A match of this kind did not require affection. They needed only to share a bed on sufficient enough occasion to produce an heir or two (and that, at least, had later proven no obstacle whatsoever).
It was to be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Their marriage provided a degree of safety to Aemond and his brothers. Rhaenyra could not strike at them without killing her son's husband and the sire of her grandchildren; a practical demonstration that they were free to live peacefully under her rule and would not be put to the sword. Simultaneously, the match neutralised the immediate threat of a coup; by marrying the heir, Aemond was elevated to the position of future King Consort. More importantly, any children Jacaerys bore for him would carry on his legacy, meaning the incentive to usurp the throne was severely diminished.
Despite this, there had still been the very real possibility that Aemond might refuse him.
Denying the offer of marriage without shattering their fragile peace was a near impossibility. A rejection of this olive branch might well have been a declaration of intent, a signal that the Hightowers still plotted to seat Aegon on the throne. Yet Jace had been terrified his uncle might reject the match regardless of any such treacherous intent; Aemond had always possessed a stubborn, spiteful streak. He was malicious to a fault, and it was difficult to imagine him being content to mate and bond with someone he so openly misliked, a bastard no less. If Alicent or Otto had guided him to reject the offer, if Aemond had been unable to swallow the humiliation...Jace’s pragmatic solution might have accomplished the very opposite of his intent and plunged the realm into war instead.
At the very least, they would have been done with this tense in-between state of affairs.
Yet, against Jace’s most persistent anxieties, his uncle had seemingly swallowed whatever resentment and misgivings he harboured and accepted the terms of the betrothal swiftly. Very swiftly.
They had wed by the custom of the Seven, even if Jace might have once fantasised of wedding by blood and fire. He had never shared that thought aloud. Such a ceremony felt altogether too romantic, and Valyrian rites were rarely public occasions, too intimate. For this grand union, they needed the realm as their witness.
The event had taken place only three moons after the Queen’s ascension. It had been intended to rival that of Alyssa Velaryon and Rogar Baratheon, and like the Golden Wedding, it had been held in the Dragonpit by the hill of Rhaenys, where the Grand Septon had presided over the ceremony.
Daemon had been the one to escort Jace to his future alpha. His stepfather had not been happy about the match in the slightest, having said on more than one occasion that he would have preferred war rather than hand over the omega to be the broodmare of a Hightower. Yet he had done his duty on the day, having been the one to remove his maiden’s cloak, smirking and holding eye contact with Aemond all the while. Aemond had then placed his own over Jace’s shoulders.
One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.
Afterwards, they’d been seated together at the feast, tense like statues. The great hall of the Red Keep had been decorated with the black and red of their house. They shared the first dance as custom dictated, and then parted when the floor opened to the guests. Jace had moved from partner to partner through the long evening; Lords paramount, minor Lords of the Reach and the Riverlands, their sons,...Loyal men who had ridden for days to be present at the occasion, whose goodwill cost nothing but a quarter hour of his time and who would carry home the memory of having danced with the crown prince. He had done his best to be charming and joyful throughout. It was good politics, good optics, and it kept him from having to think overmuch about how the night was to end. Aemond, by contrast, had danced with very few. Mostly, he had sat to the side and watched.
And then came the bedding.
They were escorted to the royal bedchambers by a bawdy, grabbing crowd. Nerve-wracking as it was, Jace had known it would come and was prepared to go along with it. He had been seized up by Aegon and Luke both, Aegon immediately setting to work on his white wedding silks. His uncle’s pack of drunkards had trailed behind him. He had Jace's doublet half off before they had even cleared the great hall. Daeron had followed and quietly apologised for each imposition as it occurred. Jace had laughed and given as good as he got in the way of jests. Luke had been the one to carry his brother closest to him and made sure he was not stripped naked nor fondled too boldly, all the while the younger boy had been red to his ears and bashful.
By tradition, the women ought to have been just as raucous with the groom. Aemond had been swarmed by Rhaenyra, Helaena, Rhaena, Baela, and a throng of other ladies besides, but the revelry on his side of the procession had quickly grown subdued. Aemond had made no attempt to pretend this was a happy occasion, radiating such rigid, simmering hostility that a good portion of the grabbing hands had backed off, though Baela had been entirely undeterred, saying things that Jace could not overhear but had seemed only to anger his lord-husband further.
As a result, when they had finally been deposited in the bed, Aemond had still been mostly dressed; his trousers had simply been pulled loose, his doublet left open, and the strings of his underclothes untied. Meanwhile, Jace’s doublet was gone entirely, his chemise torn open, and his breeches taken, leaving him in only his underthings, which were pulled loose as well.
They were at last left to themselves, though not entirely, as the rhythmic banging against the chamber door and persistent laughter by the drunken revellers outside reminded them. The noise had only ended when Aemond threatened the voyeurs with serious bodily harm if they did not instantly disperse.
When the silence had finally settled, Aemond had remained combative with him, a dark, irritable presence. It had been unclear whether his new husband was bristling from the public humiliation of the bedding ceremony, the private humiliation of having been made to wed him, or nerves at having to perform. Whatever the cause, if they ended the night without a proper consummation or a claiming mark to show for it, it would be an abject failure of their duties and a ruinous blow to the alliance.
Jace would not allow it to happen. He had taken it upon himself to soothe the tempest. It had gone entirely against his fierce inclinations to play the demure, yielding omega, but it did not contradict his bodily instincts to do so. Releasing soothing, submissive omega pheromones, Jace had tilted his head back, baring his throat in an instinctual gesture. It had been enough to break the stalemate.
Theirs was a simple pact. If Aemond would submit to Jace as his future king and serve his reign loyally, then Jace would submit to him as his alpha in turn. Aemond had taken the offering, turning him over and mounting him from behind, and Jace had allowed the alpha to let loose his tension upon his willing body. Their first time had been over quickly, and Jace’s neck had borne a mating mark ever since.
Despite doubts about Jace’s fertility, it had taken no longer than usual for their obligatory union to bear fruit. Four turns of the moon after, the maesters had pronounced him to be expecting his first babe.
That had been two moons past, and it was this that brought him to the maester’s chambers for his routine inspection.
“Maester Benys,” Jace said, entering the room. The beta before him was young. He was perhaps seven and twenty with close-cropped hair and a plain face. He was fresh from the Citadel, ordered to the Red Keep by Queen Rhaenyra’s express instruction on account of his supposed expertise in omega biology and pregnancy.
“Your—Your Grace.” Benys turned, bowing shallowly. His chains clinked as he did, making an irritating ringing noise. “I hope you are well this morrow.”
“Grand Maester Gerardys is not with you.”
“Ah–no, as this is a routine examination, he felt it unnecessary to–that is, he believed the matter well within my…He thought it quite sufficient for me to attend you alone today.”
Jace had thought as much. The moment the small council had adjourned, the maester would have gone directly up the stairs to Maegor's Holdfast. His mother had greater need of him, her pregnancy being more advanced and far more taxing. Jace understood this perfectly well. That didn’t mean he liked that instead of the familiar, comforting presence of Maester Gerardys, he was forced to endure the company of the fumbling maester before him.
Jace looked at him for a long, flat moment, allowing his disapproval to filter through it. “Very well.” He then stepped behind the modesty curtain where he began to undress. He folded his light aquamarine doublet, set it aside, and unlaced his chemise. The loose, slightly immodest gown he was given to wear for these examinations was already laid out and waiting for him. He drew it over his head. The fabric was thin, and slightly see-through because of it. He smoothed it down over his middle. He was not yet showing much, though his clothes had begun to fit differently, and he was acutely aware of the small, insistent change in his silhouette. He could, and had, stared at it for hours in the looking glass in his own bedchambers.
The heir’s first pregnancy was a matter of state, treated with an overwhelming amount of care and excessive fussing by everyone. Such caution was not entirely unwarranted, as the pregnancies of male omegas were notoriously fraught with complications. Yet, understanding the necessity did little to temper Jace's foul mood, which was only worsened by the identity of his examiner.
The maester’s theoretical expertise in matters of reproduction was said to be formidable. His practical experience with actual living omegas was evidently less developed. During their very first meeting on the first moon after the wedding, when Benys had assessed whether his husband’s seed had yet taken root in Jace (it hadn’t), the beta had been infuriatingly patronising. He had directed the entirety of his counsel to Aemond, speaking over Jace as though he were not even in the room. Worse still, as Jace had followed his instructions, he had praised the prince for being such an obliging and sweet-natured omega. He had directed that, too, over Jace's shoulder at Aemond as if congratulating the alpha on his possession of such a well-mannered pet.
Jace had promptly disabused him of that impression, giving the beta a blistering dressing-down and refusing to see him for weeks after.
Yet it seemed the man truly did possess unparalleled theoretical knowledge regarding Jace’s unique biology, and his queen-mother’s insistence meant he was forced to endure the man's presence still for these sporadic examinations.
To steady his frayed nerves, Jace quieted his thoughts and paid heed only to the hand resting softly against the newly formed swell of his belly. He could almost tell himself that beneath his palm, he felt a faint, thrumming warmth belonging to the tiny life growing inside him, even if it was still much too early for that. Despite his intense dislike for the sickness, the discomfort, the prodding examinations, and the suffocating coddling, a fierce excitement bloomed at the thought. He did long to be a mother. A good one. And he wanted most of all to see this child born strong and healthy. This was all meant only to aid him in that end. He knew that.
Sighing, Jace finished his humiliating task behind the curtain and thrtst his hand past the modesty, shoving a glass vial of his waters into Benys’s hand. The maester accepted the warm vial, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the stone floor.
Jace then moved to the bed, hoisting himself up onto the surface and settling against the pillow while Benys inspected the vial of piss for signs of imbalance.
Despite trying to calm himself, he still felt entirely ill at ease, vulnerable in the thin gown and with Benys, despite the man’s generally unthreatening appearance and his newly acquired good sense to hold his tongue.
“And how have you been feeling, Your Grace? In general terms. Sleep, appetite?”
Before Jace could offer an answer, the door swung open.
Aemond strode into the room and stopped only when he reached the foot of the bed. Severe in his dark leathers, his fitted doublet high at the throat and a sword at his hip, he was posturing as usual.
Jace bristled instantly, wondering if the alpha had followed him or which loose-lipped servant had betrayed his whereabouts. Yet, beneath the flare of irritation, Jace felt an undeniable, subconscious unspooling of his nerves as the familiar scent of his alpha filled the room, a side-effect of the bond.
Aemond’s single, penetrating eye moved from Jace lying on the bed to Benys.
The alpha's sudden appearance instantly drained whatever little composure the maester had managed to scrape together around Jace. “Prince Aemond,” he said. “I had not been informed–”
Jace propped himself more upright. “Nor had I,” he said. “Is there any reason my uncle must be present for this examination?”
“There is. I have concerns, maester,” Aemond said, “regarding the health of the prince and the babe he carries.”
Benys blinked between them. “My prince, these appointments are ordinarily private–”
“Since the matter concerns my mate and heir, I will remain,” Aemond stated, his voice implacable.
The maester swallowed. He seemed uncertain which of the two princes he should obey, even if the answer should be obvious. When Jace did not offer another protest, he bowed his head and said: “I should be glad to hear your concerns.”
Aemond smirked. “I am of the belief that my husband is being put under needless strain.”
Jace sighed loudly. “There is no strain to speak of.”
He was ignored. “Since my sister’s confinement began, he has been acting as Hand, holding audiences, managing correspondence without rest or relief. He chairs the small council, arbitrates disputes, receives petitions, and in doing so, he climbs half the Red Keep in a day.” As Aemond spoke, he moved from the foot of the bed to Jace’s bedside. “He is noticeably irritable and–”
“I am not–” Jace began.
“–ill-tempered,” Aemond continued without inflexion, “to a degree that has exceeded his ordinary temperament. Surely such strain is detrimental to the babe.”
“I am perfectly fine,” said Jace. The words came out rather more clipped and loud than he intended them to, which perhaps illustrated Aemond's point in ways he would have preferred it did not. He lowered his voice. “I am more than capable of fulfilling my duties.”
Aemond looked unimpressed. “Mhmm.”
“If I may... Prince Aemond is not entirely wrong to be cautious. The bodily demands of a pregnancy, particularly for a first-time, are extraordinary. Prolonged stress and exhaustion can threaten the delicate balance of your condition.”
Jace shot the maester a venomous glare, silently cursing the man for aligning himself with the enemy. He hardly believed the supposed medical advice. It was a common, insulting belief that omegas were too frail and simple-minded for any true responsibility, and theirs was an uncommon and unnatural tableau for Westerosi society; in a room containing a high-born alpha, an educated beta, and a pregnant omega, it was the omega who held the most power. It was to be expected that the other men in the room would align themselves to take him down a notch.
Aemond’s lips quirked into that familiar, maddening half-smile. “You hear the man's wisdom, my sweet mate. It seems the burden of the realm must be delegated, lest you put our child at risk. Perhaps it would be wise to focus your energies on more tranquil, domestic pursuits?”
Jace saw the political trap springing shut around him with perfect clarity. “And who, exactly, would you have me delegate my duties to?” he demanded. “To whom should I surrender my mother's council? To you? Or mayhaps to your mother? Shall we send a raven to Oldtown as well?”
Jace’s mind raced blindly down a darkened path he usually fought so desperately to avoid, thinking of what might be the endgame of such scheming. Rhaenyra's pregnancy was perilous. There was a reason that Daemon refused to leave her side. With trusted men guarding her doors and Maester Gerardys tending to her health, any would-be usurpers should not be able to reach her, but it was all too easy to make foul play look like natural causes at this stage. If the Stranger were to take her upon the birthing bed, then Aemond would have access to the throne through him, and if Jace let them take hold of governance now, how easy would it be to keep him in that place? A puppet king, subjugated, kept pregnant, and beneath his alpha's heel–or worse.
He forced the paranoia down. Yet he could not hide the turn his mood had taken. His usually sweet scent soured in the enclosed room.
Aemond’s nostrils flared as he caught the change. The smugness evaporated from him, his eye locking onto Jace with intense displeasure.
Benys cleared his throat. “Your Grace,” he said, far more gently than before, “there is no strict medical necessity to restrict activities, provided that you are not engaged in anything of a strenuous physical nature. Prolonged unrest and emotional strain are certainly to be avoided, but adverse effects can be reduced by ensuring you receive enough sleep, adequate time to rest, and by relieving the strain by whatever, ah, means you find.”
There was a pause during which no one spoke. Jace wondered if Benys’ clumsy phrasing had meant to imply what he thought it did.
“Jace,” said Aemond. His voice was quiet and soft. Soothing, like a lullaby. Jace turned to face him. “You are letting your emotions overtake you. I do not wish to dispossess you of anything.” The alpha’s calming pheromones, released with intention, settled over Jace. It worked despite the patronising contents of his speech. He knew the words were not to be trusted, yet Jace’s mind started humming pleasantly as he felt himself be overtaken by the siren’s song.
“Now then,” Benys said, coughing again. “How have you been feeling, my prince? In general terms. Any cramping? Dizziness beyond the usual? Bleeding?”
Jace fiddled with his hands, then clasped them together in his lap to stop himself. “Nothing of the sort. Although I have experienced bouts of nausea and emesis. The mornings in particular are unpleasant, but it may happen at any point of the day.”
“How long has this been occurring?” asked Aemond in an agitated manner. He was still standing at his bedside, one hand resting on the bedpost. “Is that usual?”
“Perfectly normal, my prince,” Benys said with some evident relief at having a question he could answer without difficulty. “Morning sickness is very common, and quite expected in the early months. Anything else, Prince Jacaerys?”
“The pressure on my bladder grows persistent,” Jace said stiffly. “I suppose I have also experienced a bit more fatigue.” It cost him greatly to admit the physical weaknesses aloud.
Benys nodded. “Also entirely expected. As the babe grows, the pressure on surrounding structures will too. This will likely worsen before it improves, I am afraid.” He paused. “But on the whole, these are all signs that the pregnancy is progressing as expected. There is nothing here to cause alarm.”
“Can you be certain?” asked Aemond.
“In matters of this nature, one can never be fully certain.”
“Then what use are you?”
The maester’s eyes widened at the sudden aggression in the alpha’s tone. “I–my prince, by all current indications, the signs are quite encouraging. These are common presentations. I would be more concerned by their absence, in fact. Male omega pregnancies do require careful monitoring, but there is nothing at present to suggest–”
“Your vaunted expertise amounts to nothing more than guesswork, then,” Aemond sneered. “Is there nought more you can do than offer hedged assurances?”
Jace could see the fine sheen of sweat beginning at the maester’s temple. “I—well. I suppose there are certain additional physical signs I might examine for. Things that may offer greater assurance. It would not yield certainty, to be sure, but it may give some better indication that all is in order.” It was plainly a suggestion born of a wish to appease the alpha's growing temper.
Aemond did not look mollified. His eye remained fixed upon the maester with cold impatience. “What would that entail?”
Benys swallowed. “I could examine the abdomen. To judge the positioning of the babe, the firmness of the womb, and the size of the growth.” He hesitated. “And I suppose I could also inspect the chest, if it please the prince. Ordinarily, at this stage the body prepares to nurse, and the breasts will begin to swell. The nipples may grow tender, more sensitive, and the areolas darken. Such observations can be informative in terms of confirming the stage and vigour of the pregnancy. I can do so over the gown, but it would be easier to determine the changes if the prince were to lift it.”
Jace’s arms crossed over his chest at once. He was bare beneath his gown. To lift it to his chest would mean to expose himself completely from the neck down.
Aemond stayed perfectly still as he stared at the maester. The chamber was at once flooded with the threatening, hostile musk of aggressive alpha pheromones. Sensing immediately that he had overstepped, Benys paled. The tense silence remained for too long a time. In a controlled voice, Aemond spoke, “And would you consider fondling the crown prince’s teats a needful procedure?”
Jace almost found it amusing. Aemond was no different from other alphas. Animalistic and possessive of what he considered to belong to him even if no underlying affection or care was present.
“No, my prince. Not necessary. The abdominal examination would be the more important part. The other would only, ah, provide further signs to reassure you–to reassure both of you....”
“You’ll not touch him.”
Jace turned his head sharply toward Aemond, suddenly irate. “You have no say in that.”
Aemond turned back to him. There was a flash of temper in his eye. “I have no say over who touches my mate?”
“You have no right to decide it for me,” Jace said. Then, without taking his eyes off Aemond, he addressed the maester. “Maester, you may examine my abdomen through the gown. Nothing more.”
“Yes, at once, my prince.” The maester leaned in and set his hands against Jace’s stomach softly and with caution, touching something that may be considered both delicate and dangerous. He pressed lightly as a feather at first, then more firmly, feeling around. Jace held himself still, though he disliked the nearness of the beta. Benys’s sleeves brushed the coverlet. His face was bent in concentration. At Jace’s side, Aemond stood watch as if he were his sworn shield.
Benys cleared his throat, his face uncomfortably close, his eyes trained carefully at some point near Jace's collarbone. “Have you felt any increased tenderness or swelling in the chest area, Your Grace?”
Jace stared at the ceiling above him rather than at either of the two men. He had indeed experienced some sensitivity while dressing in the mornings because of the friction against his nipples. Reluctantly, he answered, “Yes. Some, I suppose. A slight swelling and it–they feel a bit sore and tender.”
Aemond’s scent spiked suddenly, growing more suffocating. Irritatingly, Jace’s body responded quickly to that very change, the bond between them like a live thing tugged awake. A shiver ran through him and beneath his thin gown, his nipples tightened, the fabric turning abrasive against his tender skin.
“Good,” said Benys tightly. “That is good.” He removed his hands from the omega's abdomen with a haste that betrayed his eagerness to be done with the ordeal and away front the two princes, surely. “Yes. Yes, I believe–everything appears to be in order.” He stepped back. “We can conclude the examination here. You may redress.”
Jace did not wait to be told twice. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and moved behind the modesty where he pulled the examination gown over his head, eager to be back in his own clothes and out of this suffocating room. He reached for his chemise. As he began to slip his arms into the sleeves, he could hear the low, even timbre of Aemond’s voice speaking quietly. He was interrogating the maester once more, he realised as he overheard the two men continue to speak about him as though he were not there.
“–insists on taking his beast to the skies on a near-daily basis. Surely the strain of the saddle, the freezing winds, and the physical exertion are detrimental, and such reckless indulgence must be restricted.”
A sudden flash of anger surged through him at the realisation that Aemond was attempting to ground him, effectively stripping away his greatest freedom.
“No!” he exclaimed loudly. “I will give up no such thing.” Calming himself, he continued, “My mother the Queen flew on Syrax frequently while she was with child, right up until her final moons, and she suffered no ill effects from it. It did none of us any harm whatsoever.”
He heard Aemond hum. “It may have for some of you.”
He fumbled angrily with his clothing, turning his ire onto the complicated laces at the back of his doublet. “Furthermore, she believes the time spent in the sky strengthens the bond between the unborn child and the dragons and increases the likelihood of a cradle egg hatching, as it did for my brothers and me.”
There was a brief silence on the other side of the screen.
“Be that as it may, Your Grace,” Benys ventured, his voice trembling slightly. “While the Queen's practices are indeed well documented, it still may be wise to restrict such vigorous activity somewhat in the coming moons. The physical demands could invite unwanted peril.”
Jace let out another bitter scoff, his frustration mounting as his fingers slipped clumsily against the silken ties of his doublet. Between his lingering irritation, the exhaustion, and the soreness he experienced throughout his entire body, he simply could not get the laces to catch. “Seven hells,” he hissed under his breath, finally losing his patience. “Maester, be useful for once and send for a servant to help me manage these damnable ties.”
The modesty curtain was pushed aside at once, and instead of a servant, it was Aemond who stepped into the cramped space, flooding the tiny enclave with his scent. Jace stiffened as Aemond came to stand behind him and batted his hands away to take hold of the tangled laces. It was unlike the alpha to be in any way helpful, though it was true that Aemond had helped him redress once or twice after a thryst when they had needed to hurry.
“If you are so determined to take to the skies, perhaps you might consider flying with me on Vhagar,” Aemond murmured, his voice low enough that the maester could not overhear. His breath ghosted over Jace's shoulder as he worked the laces.
“You would have me ride passenger?”
“Her saddle is large enough to accommodate us both comfortably, meaning you need not strain yourself with the reins. It will be safer with me behind you to guide the flight.”
Jace twisted his neck to look at Aemond. “You cannot expect me to remain without my own dragon for moons to come,” he said. “Vermax would grow restless.”
“You may visit Vermax in the pit as often as you please,” Aemond countered. He pulled the ties taut. “It is hardly my fault that your mount is too misbehaved and untrained to be trusted alone in the open air.”
“He is young,” said Jace defensively, defending his bonded dragon on instinct, even if it was true that he was undeniably ill-tempered and unpredictable, sure to cause chaos when left to his own devices.
He bit the inside of his cheek, then. For a moment, he pictured himself seated before Aemond in the massive saddle of the Queen of All Dragons. Vhagar was legendary, and Jace had never experienced what it was like to fly on such a formidable mount. The thought was exciting; he could not deny it. “I will... consider it,” he finally conceded. “Perhaps during the very last moons.”
Aemond stepped back, allowing him room to breathe. When Jace turned, he could see a faint, triumphant gleam spark in his eye.
As he was now sufficiently dressed, Aemond offered a stiff, strangely awkward nod before striding from the room.
Jace was equally eager to make his escape. Yet peace was not to be found so easily. As he stepped out into the drafty stone corridor, Maester Benys easily fell into step beside him.“I have to retrieve some scrolls in the library,” he explained, offering him a weak smile.
Jace was intensely annoyed by the intrusion, yet he swallowed his irritation and allowed the beta to walk beside him. He would soon shake the unwanted shadow in any case.
“Prince Jacaerys, if I may be so bold,” said Benys softly. You certainly may not, Jace thought viciously. He did not say it aloud, offering only a tense silence that Benys took as permission to continue. “I could not help but notice there was some… strain between yourself and your lord-husband.”
“Is that so?” asked Jacaerys. “You have a remarkably cunning mind, Maester. I see exactly why my mother had you brought here.”
“Right,” he continued. “Well, it also happens that I noted that you are not carrying his scent.” He raised a placating hand as Jace’s posture instantly stiffened at the observation. “I wish only to give you some advice for the good of the pregnancy, Your Grace. This may be a cause of concern from my vantage.”
Jace frowned.
He lowered his voice. “I did not wish to bring it up in his presence, which is why I thought it better to speak to you now, but regular scenting and physical closeness between a pregnant omega and their alpha can have many regulating and positive properties.”
Jace stopped walking entirely, turning to face the maester with a warning glare. He did not much appreciate such discussions of his intimate habits in the open hallways, even if it was just the two of them at present.. “Careful.”
Benys practically shrank against the stone wall. “I truly do not mean to be inappropriate, I swear it,” he added quickly. “It is only that the humours of a bonded omega are best stabilised through the regular reaffirmation of the mating bond.”
“Do speak plainly.”
Benys sighed. “You may consider allowing your husband to share your bed, my prince, rather than keeping him at a distance.”
Jace pressed his lips into a thin line. It was quite the leap for the maester to assume it was Jace who had barred Aemond from his bed. Though it was true that they had not shared any true intimacy since the maesters had first proclaimed the pregnancy had taken root.
Before that announcement, they had been rigorous in ensuring their marital duties were fulfilled. Aemond had wanted his heir, of course, and Jace had wanted the very same. It had only been natural that they would attempt to conceive as often as possible so the seed would take root swiftly. That way, they need not be forced into each other's private company anymore once the deed was done. To that end, they were both aligned and quite dedicated indeed.
They had fulfilled their duties in the bedchambers, but also pressed against the shelves of the library after dark, in empty rooms along the hallways during the daytime hours, and once or twice against the table in the council chambers. There had been four moons of that.
A traitorous shudder ran through Jace’s body. He was hopelessly frustrated and aching, pining for attention he had been denied for too long. He had assumed it would be easy to return to a life of celibacy, given that he had been untouched before their wedding night, even if Aemond had not believed him to be so because he had not bled on account of his maidenhead having been lost to Vermax's saddle years ago (“A convenient excuse,” Aemond had called it. The prick).
Yet Aemond must not be suffering so greatly as he was. Since his seed had taken root, his alpha had not sought him out once. It left him to wonder sullenly if he had already found other companionship in the Street of Silk or some such. He wondered darkly if it would prove entirely detrimental to their fragile political alliance if he were to demand his mother take Aemond's head for such a trespass.
Benys pressed on with his counsel. “Allowing him to scent you, and doing so in turn, will allow a familial bond to naturally take root. It will lead to Prince Aemond more easily bonding with the babe once it arrives.”
The ramifications of that statement struck him then. He did not need Aemond to ever feel true affection for him, nor did he want it. But if Aemond felt fondness and devotion for their child, he would surely be far less inclined to usurp Jace's throne. A protective father would not instigate a war that might threaten his own blood.
“I will take your counsel into consideration, maester,” he said curtly, cutting off any further advice the beta might have offered. “And I think I shall remain walking alone.”