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The crown is always heavy on Jace’s head. It does not scar him or make him bleed, but each night his head aches. Something so deep he can feel the throbbing behind his eyes when he shuts them closed. He wants his mothers gentle hands running through his hair, slowly untangling the curls. He wants the heavy weight of Joffrey in his arms. The light touch of Baela’s fingers against his wrist. He wants to see Lucerys just once more. It is just him now, the last of his bloodline. His eyes burn when he shuts them, and he hears the shuffle of the maidservants removing the steaming tub of water from his chambers. He could hardly sit in it for a few minutes before his patience wore thin. He waits for them to leave and then changes into lighter clothing, less gaudy than what he had to wear to lunch with a lord from Essos. He can’t seem to sit still, pacing the length of his chambers before he wraps his riding cloak around his shoulders and leaves his room. He waves off Ser Lionel, but he knows the knight will follow at a respectable distance. He is the last Targaryen after all. Perhaps it is the very thought that leads him to the East Tower. The knowledge that there is only one other person who remains alive and breathing, who knew his family as well, if not better, than he did.
Alicent Hightowers’ doors are heavily guarded for a dowager queen. The corridor that leads to her room has three knights, all of whom lower their eyes as he makes his way past them. The door to her apartments is guarded by one of his most trusted knights, Ser Marvin, who nods at him as he steps aside. The hour is late, but not so late that she would have retreated abed. He does not speak to Alicent Hightower, but he is aware of her every routine. He knows that now, she must be reading or sewing. Her maidservants tell him that she alternates between the two, depending on how much her hands shake on the day. He wonders what it will be when he knocks on the door. It creaks open, and a maid bows as soon as she recognizes who he is. Her eyes are wide, as if she cannot fathom the King being here. He supposes she is correct. He has not spoken to Alicent once since he had won over Kings Landing. It has been nearly a dozen moons now.
She moves out of the way and he walks in. Alicent is sitting by the fire, book in her hand. Her knuckles are white, fingers clenched around the weathered leather. She looks at him with no shock colouring her features. Her hair looks even more auburn in this light, and her eyes are tired.
“Leave us,” he says, voice catching on the last word. He watches as the girl looks to Alicent, unsure, before she scutters out. The door shuts softly behind her.
“What do you want, Jacaerys?” Alicent asks. Her voice is soft but cold. Suddenly, he feels as if he is a boy of four and ten once more. Not a man grown of two and twenty. He used to wonder how it was that this woman and his mother had been friends. Not even simply friends, but something closer. Their love so strong that his mother could look past Alicent’s own trespassing and cruelty.
“I am your king,” he says, feeling rather foolish. If Alicent picks up on the tremor in his voice, she makes no mockery of it. “You should address me as such.”
“Are you here to take your rights then, my king?” she asks, and now when she looks at him, there is cruelty in her eyes. Her mouth is pursed, and he sees the dimple in her cheek. A farce of a smile. He falters.
“Don’t be foolish,” he says, but he takes a step back, away from her. Suddenly feeling sick at the thought that she might think him capable of that. “I am not like your son.”
He can spit venom too, now. Her face shutters.
“No, you are not,” she agrees. “Yet you are your grandsire's kin, all the same.”
He barks out a laugh but there is no humour. Even now, she sits atop her high horse.
“Now I am Targaryen enough for you?” he asks, watching her. He sees her hands clench even tighter around her book. There are flecks of blood crusting her nails.
“You have always been your mothers son,” she finally says, after a pregnant pause. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
He expects the words to be delivered with hatred. Disgust, even. The same way her sons had whispered bastard whenever they had been children. The same way the whispers had followed them all throughout the castle.
Instead, she sounds almost warm. A wistfulness in her tone that he cannot place, nor does he wish to. He is unsure of what to say, and suddenly, feels his age. Two and twenty does not seem as mature when Alicent is nearly twice as many years and seems to see through him before he can see through himself.
“What did you come here for?” she asks, when the silence has stretched on for far too long. “I cannot imagine it was my company.”
It is a jest, or perhaps, a ghost of one. She does not smile as she says it, but she no longer sounds caustic.
“No one else knew her,” Jace says. He feels tired all of the sudden. His grief had been momentarily forgotten, when he wished to sting Alicent as she had done him. His mother had always said that it was easier to feel anger in order to ignore all else. There is a pregnant pause, and he feels his words echo around the chamber. He wonders what the guards might think of him, coming to the mother of the usurper's rooms so late in the eve.
“I have not known her in a long time,” Alicent finally says. She still watches him, almost carefully. She is trying to gauge him, he knows. He wonders what she might think. Whether he is pathetic for searching for camaraderie with the enemy.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps you knew her the most of us all.”
Her mouth twists, and her large eyes gloss over. There is a furrow between her brows.
“You should leave,” she finally says. Her tone is cold and she no longer looks at him. He watches as she lays the book on her lap, running a hand over the page. There is a slight tremor there. He leaves without saying another word, his footfalls heavy against the stone. He can hear Ser Lionel following behind him.
***
He sees her again a few days later. He does not mean to, but he knocks on her doors shortly after breaking his fast. The maid that opens the door is different from the girl from the other night but her reaction is identical. Eyes wide, as she bows and scurries off when he asks her to leave them. If Alicent finds it odd that he is here yet again, she speaks nothing of it.
“Good day,” he says, the greeting feeling clunky as it leaves his mouth.
“Your Grace,” she greets, face stoic. “What can I do for you?”
In truth, he does not know. As stilted as their previous conversation had been, it was nice to speak to someone who knew what it felt like to lose everything and everyone. They shared a family, after all.
“I wished to see how you were faring,” he says. It is a pathetic excuse, and one she sees through entirely, he is sure of.
“I have been prisoner here for almost a year now,” she says, in lieu of an answer.
“I do not consider you my prisoner,” he says, honest in a way his council would hate him being.
“How kind,” she says, but her tone isn’t biting. If anything, she sounds softer than she had before.
“If you wish it, I can leave,” he says. He will not invade her spaces and force her into a conversation. That would be pathetic.
“I did not say that,” she says. “You may join me, if you wish it. I am reading.”
He sits across from her, back straight and shoulders tense. He’s not sure how long they spend reading in silence but it is the most calm he has felt in a long time. He wonders what his mother would say, if she could see him now. At least an hour has passed when there is a knock at the door, before it gently opens. It is Ser Lionel, looking sheepish, as if he might have interrupted something.
“Your Grace,” he says. “There are petitioners from the Riverlands who wish for an audience. They are quite insistent that they see you.”
Jace stands up, placing the book he was pretending to read back on the table. He can feel Alicent watching him.
“I will be there shortly,” he tells Ser Lionel, who nods, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
“I must leave,” he says, rather foolishly he might add, since Alicent has been there the entire time and knows that he is being summoned.
“Have a good day, Jacaerys,” she says in response, before turning back to her book. It is a dismissal, he is sure of it. Yet somehow, it does not sting.
***
Lord Darnley Tyrell wishes to lunch with him and discuss matters of Highgarden which is how Jace finds himself listening to the old man drone on and on about how barren the Red Keep is compared. He feels his jaw twitch as he nods at another gentle suggestion to import some more greenery from the more lovely parts of Westeros. He couldn’t care less regarding the foliage around the castle. There are armies to rebuild and cities to stabilise. The lunch drags on, far longer than he would prefer and he finally excuses himself once he sees the sun begin to move further west. If Lord Tyrell is offended, he does not show it except for the faint curl of his mouth. Jace saddles one of his advisors with the task of continuing to entertain the old man before he escapes towards the library. Ever since the war ended, trading with Pentos has posed a challenge. It was far enough that no merchant there had sworn any sort of allegiance to either side, but war had limited trading and the lack of interaction had meant the Pentoshi now believed themselves self-sufficient. They looked down upon Westeros and their petty familial feuds, is what Jace’s council had informed him, although they had used sweeter words.
He traces a finger over a map of the free cities. Flying on Vermax would take him three days, if he did not break for too long along the way. He had suggested it to his council, all of whom had shaken their heads, faces ashen.
“You cannot risk it, my King,” Lord Tarly had said. A stout man with deep set eyes, he was perhaps Jace’s favourite council member. It was not saying much, given that Jace had found most of his council overly cautious and unattentive, all at once. But beggars could not be choosers, and most of his mother’s council had died in the war. The ones who hadn’t had returned to what remained of their families, and Jace would not be a king that would force someone’s hand. He was sure of that, at least. He was irritated by himself, for being so unsure of how to proceed. The grief encompassed that though. He was king too early, and far too young. It should have been his mother first. There was so much he had not asked her of yet, so much she had not told him. He jams the heel of his hand into his left eye, feeling a throb of pain beginning to bloom. His nose burns from the unshed tears.
“Jacaerys,” a familiar voice says and he whips around. Alicent is standing near the door, a guard behind her watching them with wide eyes. If they notice his wet eyes, they say nothing. Jace waves the guard off.
“You may wait outside,” he says. He does not need another set of ears to hear their conversation and spread it throughout the castle. There are enough whispers, as is. The guard nods, shutting the door behind him.
“What do you want?” he asks, looking at her. She looks younger today, more like the lady he had seen when he was just a boy. Her hair is still loose around her shoulders, and she wears only a gown of deep blue. Her neck is bare except for the slope of her collarbones, and Jace looks away. Not fast enough since she watches him carefully, her large eyes following his every movement. Something flits across her face, but it is gone in an instant.
“I am allowed to visit the library once every week to select books to read,” she says.
Jace is aware of this, having been the one who allowed for it to happen even when Lord Manderly had suggested it would be foolish to have the dowager queen roaming the castle. “ It would not be roaming if it was once a week and she was with a guard now would it, Lord Manderly ?” Jace had snapped and the man had not spoken again for the entirety of the council meeting.
“Do not let me stop you,” he says, looking back at the map. He does not know why he’s surprised when she comes to stand next to him. He has the childish urge to hide the map from her, suddenly irritated by her presence. He can smell the scent of the perfume oils she wears on her skin, and it makes the blood rush to his ears.
“I ruled once,” she says, suddenly. “If you needed help, I would offer it.”
“Because you are so benevolent?” he asks, voice rising. Perhaps it is his frustrations from earlier, bubbling over. Her mouth twitches.
“Because you are young,” she says. “You are young and out of your depth. Anyone with common sense can see it.”
If he was irritated before, now he feels the coals of anger burning in his belly.
“And whose fault is that?” he shouts, turning fully to face her. “Whose fault is it that my mother is dead? The rightful Queen. It should have been her here.”
Alicent clenches her jaw. He sees her dig a finger into the bed of her thumbnail, blood bubbling up.
“There is no point in pitying yourself,” she finally says, rather evenly given the clench of her hands. “You cannot bring her back. You cannot bring any of them back.”
He scoffs. Her hypocrisy knows no bounds.
“And I suppose you have been adjusting to your family being dead very well then?” he asks, voice venomous. “Is that why I receive reports of you roaming your chambers throughout the night, like a ghost. Is that why you cannot bear to even step foot in a sept? Is that why I had the guards bar your balcony, so that you would not do the same as your own daughter?”
The slap does not shock him. It is what he was expecting. Alicent has not been gentle in a long time. It echoes through the library, and his face moves with the impact. He can feel the heat of blood rushing to the hinge of his jaw. When he looks back at her, her eyes are glossy with unshed tears and her mouth trembles. She presses the hand that had slapped him to the centre of her chest, cradling it to her. He takes a step back from her, and then another.
“To outlive your children is a fate more cruel than any death,” she says, voice shaking. “You do not know what it is like, to have been a mother and then to simply not be anymore.”
The silence stretches between them. He wants to keep yelling. To say more cruel things. He is tired of hiding his anger. Instead, he reaches for the map and settles it under his arm. Alicent watches him carefully.
“No,” he says. “I suppose I do not.” With that, he turns on his heel and leaves. When he reaches his chambers, he sinks to his knees and lets himself cry for the first time in moons.
***
The guilt of what he had said about Helaena creeps up on him, like ivy twisting around a branch. She was always kind to him, always lovely. So unlike Aegon and Aemond who had become harsh and bitter, poisoned by the Red Keep and its vipers. Perhaps it is what leads him to Alicent’s chambers later that evening, when the moon is shining in the sky. He does not use the doors of his chambers, instead sneaking through a passageway not even his Kingsguard know about. He had discovered it with Aegon and Lucerys when they were children. They had used it to hide from Aemond, casually cruel in a way only a child could be. He knows the palace whispers of their meetings, now twice in the same number of days. He does not need them to speak of it anymore. The crown is more precarious on his head than it ever has been.
The passageway leads to a corridor that has a door that he knows leads into one of the chambers of Alicent’s apartments. He’s not entirely sure which one it is, which is why he’s gentle when he unlocks it with a key that Ser Llewyn had given him the night of his coronation, a lewd smile on his face. You can do anything now , the older man had said. The to her had gone unspoken, but Jace was well aware of how cruel men could be. He had relieved Ser Llewyn of his duties a few days later, but he had kept the key. Not for the purpose that it had been given to him, but because it was better in his hands than in some knight with misplaced anger and hatred in his heart.
He enters into a drawing room that is poorly lit and empty. The air is cold. She must not use this room then. He makes his way slowly towards the entrance, the glow of a fire peaking through the crack between the floor and the heavy door. He has never been in Alicent’s wing before, except for three nights ago. He’s not familiar with how the rooms are laid out but he’s fairly certain the room outside is the one he had seen her in. It is late enough that her chambermaids must not be there but he is still careful when he opens the door. On the other side, her back is to him as she kneels by a settee, hands clasped in prayer.
“Alicent,” he says and her head snaps up. She turns around in a flash, eyes wide with fear before something like relief passes over her face. Then, her eyes narrow. She wraps her arms around her body, pulling her robe tighter.
“What do you want?” she says. She does not sound scared, for which Jace is relieved.
“I came to apologise,” he says. “What I said earlier, it was cruel. And unfair to Helaena. She was the best of you and grandsire.”
The mention of her daughter makes her stand up straighter, spine rigid.
“She was,” Alicent eventually agrees. “My sweet girl.”
It is a rather tender sentiment to say in front of Jace, a side of her he has never seen before. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that she had been kind once, perhaps even gentle. His mother had never said it, but he knew. He nods.
Then, “You owe me an apology too.”
If anything, she stands up straighter. He wonders if he could feel the knobs of her spine if he touched her back. It is an abrupt and absurd thought, one that he clears from his mind immediately.
“My deepest apologies for striking you,” she says, her voice cold.
“Not for that,” he says, short. She raises a brow. “For being a hypocrite.”
Perhaps the anger he had felt earlier still simmers in his veins. He is part dragon after all.
When she says nothing, he continues. He’s not sure where it had come from but once he starts speaking it is as if he cannot stop.
“You have always been one. You tell me that I am behaving as if I am a victim, but you have done that for as long as I can remember. Had you loved my mother enough, you would have let it go and not filled Aegon’s mind with delusions of prophecy and inheritance. They would all still be here. Your family and mine.”
Our family , he wants to add. But he does not.
“You speak of things you do not comprehend,” she says, sounding vicious and tired all at once. Her voice shakes with her rage. Good, he thinks. Let us both be angry so I do not have to carry this burden alone. “You know nothing of what I have endured.”
“I know that it has caused this.” he says back, his voice raising. There is a shuffling near the door, which catches both their attention.
“How easy it must be for you to put all the blame on me. To absolve anyone you love of their misgivings just to make me the villain,” she says. Her voice is quieter now, but still sharp. It is almost thoughtful that she would speak quietly so as to prevent Jace from being caught here, sneaking in like some sleazy king. They both know what everyone would think, if he is found here at this time of night.
“My mother forgave you,” he says, voice breaking on the last word. “She would have allowed you to leave with Helaena had you given her Aegon. A son for a son. You agreed to it yourself. You know what he was like, that he did not wish for the crown. Yet you betrayed her once more. And she died for it.”
She walks towards him now, eyes blazing.
“If you think I would have wanted that to happen to her then you are a bigger fool than I thought you capable of,” she says and the vehemence in her tone jolts him. She is standing much closer now.
“Tell me then,” he says, voice rough from the emotion clawing at his throat. “Tell me how it went. How you promised her Aegon and then had him feed her to his dragon.”
The tears flow down her face now, glimmering in the yellow light of the fire. The silence between them stretches, taut and tense.
“I did not think him capable of that,” she finally says. “I did not wish for him to do that to Rhaenyra.”
The use of his mothers name sends a new ache through him. It has been far too long since he has heard it.
“I killed him,” Jace says. He is not sure why he says it. He knows that she is aware of this. “It was an arrow to his chest.”
“I know,” she says, sounding hollow. Her hands shake, so violently. Some part of him wishes to reach out but he keeps his fist clenched. She is the only other person who can understand the loss he feels.
“I will not apologise for it,” he says, voice firm. She is still watching him.
“You never love anything in the world the way you love your first child,” she says, voice gentler than he has ever heard it. “I loved him. Despite who he was. I will not apologise for it.”
Jace nods.
“I loved your mother too,” she adds when he stays silent. “We were girls together. I did what I had been told was correct. What had been whispered in my ear by my father. I do not expect you to understand, Jacaerys. You are still young. Sometimes, I do not think I quite understand it myself.”
He has not realised that he is crying until he feels her hand, gentle on his cheek. She wipes at his tears with her thumb. He feels himself crumple, knees buckling under some insurmountable weight. He grips Alicent around her waist, tucking his face into her neck and cries like a babe. He is not sure how much time passes, but when he comes to, she has an arm across his shoulders and one hand curled near the nape of his neck. He can feel her heartbeat through the layer of her robe and the smell of sage wafts from her hair. He presses his nose into her neck before he realises what he is doing, and he feels her tilt her head, giving him better access. Then as if they both realise what is happening, they stiffen, rigid in each others arms.
He steps back immediately, almost stumbling. Her eyes are wide, assessing him once more.
“My apologies,” he says, overly formal for the conversation they had just had.
“You should go back to your chambers,” Alicent says, carefully. “Before your Kingsguard realises you are missing.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “I should.”
He makes no move to leave. Instead, he keeps watching her.
“Alicent,” he says and perhaps it is his tone or his youth that gives him away. She shakes her head, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You are confused,” she says.
“You speak to me as if I am a child,” he says, annoyance building up inside of him. He is a man grown, not some greenboy.
“Perhaps because you are young enough to be my own child,” she snaps back, but her cheeks are flushed.
“Do not make this out to be something it is not,” he says, voice calmer than how he feels.
“And what is this , exactly?” she asks. “You feel some perverse claim over me. You have conquered Kings Landing, my king. There is no need of conquering me too. The palace already whispers of it.”
He knows her well enough now to know she stings when she wishes to run away from how she feels. He will not allow it.
“That is not true and you and I both know it,” he says. He clenches his jaw, running a hand through his hair, tugging at a knot.
“It is wrong,” she says, after a pregnant pause. He snorts. He will not insist, if it is something she is unsure of.
“There is much wrong in this world, but this ? It is not like that,” he says. “I shall take your leave. Good night, Alicent.”
As he reaches the door he had entered the room through, he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around just as she slides a hand through his hair, gripping at the base of his neck.
“Alright,” she says, voice quiet. And then she presses her mouth to his. He pulls her closer immediately, one hand reaching to cradle her jaw. She kisses him like she wishes to devour him, and he is happy to allow it. He presses her to the door, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He parts from her mouth, trailing kisses down her neck and towards her collarbones. He stays there, sucking marks as she twists her hands in his hair.
“Jacaerys,” she says and her voice is husky now. She tugs at his cloak, pulling it off his shoulders. “The guards are right outside.”
It is a valid concern. Something Jace is incapable of currently thinking of, too enamoured with the soft skin of her decolletage. He tugs at the pieces of ribbon that keep her robe closed, pulling it open. Her shift is thin, and he can see the smooth paleness of her skin below. He runs his mouth lower, and she moans a sweet sound, just as he reaches her breasts, heaving with the deep breaths she takes. He runs his tongue over her, and her moan is louder now. She tugs at his hair, pulling him up and away from her chest and there is a flush that travels from her cheeks to her neck. He wants to see how low it goes.
“The guards,” she reminds him, voice stern. He must look a fool, eyes glazed and panting like a dog in heat.
“Right,” he says, rather dumbly. Her dimples appear as she lets out a small laugh.
“Come with me,” she says, leading him towards another door. When he enters, he realises they are in her bedchamber. She leads him towards the featherbed, and he lays down. He feels tired suddenly, from all the emotions.
He rubs at his eyes. Whatever lust he felt before has simmered into something warmer, still running through his veins. He tugs Alicent closer, pulling her back towards his chest. She stiffens slightly, before her shoulders relax. His hand travels down, towards the edge of her shift.
“Can I?” he asks, and he feels her nod. “I need to hear you say it.”
There’s a pregnant pause before she speaks. “Yes.”
When he sinks his fingers into her, it is warm and delightful. She squirms in his grip, holding his wrist, and pushing his hand further into her. He keeps moving, and her breaths become shallower, chest heaving. He sucks at the skin behind her ear, his tongue tracing the taste and she moans. He is so stiff now, he feels as if he might finish in his breeches like a greenboy.
Suddenly, she pushes his hand away, before she sits up and presses him flat onto his back.
“Can I?” she echoes his words from earlier.
“Yes,” he says, not caring what he is agreeing to, and then he is inside of her. He sits up, pulling her closer, until they are pressed together so tightly there is no room between them. She grips his hair as he kisses. He trails his mouth down her neck, lower and lower and she moans so loudly when he takes her nipple in his mouth that he suspects the guards might hear it through the two rooms that separate them.
“Alicent,” he murmurs, reverent. She pulls him up and away from her chest, so that he looks into her brown eyes now.
“Jacaerys,” she says, and then she is clenching around him and he is gripping her hips so tightly he worries it might bruise. The waves of pleasure wash over them slowly, and when he moves to slip out, she tightens her legs around him.
“Just a bit longer,” she says, and he flushes. When she lets him go, a handful of minutes later, he finds a wet cloth and wipes them both down. As he lays down next to her, he feels questions beginning to mount in his mind.
She runs a finger down the bridge of his nose, towards his mouth before she taps him once on his chin. It is the gentlest he has been touched in so very long.
“Rest,” she says. “The war has ended. There is time for us to navigate what comes next.”
He lets himself close his eyes. She is right, after all. The dragons have not danced in a long time.