Do Not Presume to Know The Damned (Jacaerys x Helaena)

Jacaerys I

Jacaerys Velaryon knew he was a bastard. He had harboured a suspicion for a while. Between subtle jokes from Aegon accompanied by his shit-eating grin to Ser Harwin Strong's closeness with his mother, it was difficult not to take note. And then there was his appearance. Distinctly non-Valyrian and lacking all traces of his Velaryon relatives. Both he and Lucerys had brown curls, snub noses, brown eyes, and pale skin. The fact they'd not been declared bastards before the realm upon birth was a miracle. A blessed consequence of their grandsire's love for their mother and the Princess Rhaenys' Baratheon heritage and colouring.

The only one not willing to play along with the charade was the Queen Alicent. She was pointed and vicious with her barbs, shunning his brother and himself wherever she could. Luke feared her, and Jace found it hard to disagree with that assessment. Sometimes she would join the king when he came to watch them train above the training grounds on the parapet. Her stony gaze penetrating through his skin and down to the bone, laying him bare. Who are you? She spat with a single look. A bastard boy masquerading as a prince. Every time he got a hit in on her sons, he knew she scowled. A bastard allowed to mark a prince. To the queen, it was unconscionable.

Luckily for Her Grace, Ser Criston Cole was in apparent agreement. The boys rarely were allowed to fight against one another in practice duels. Instead, Ser Criston heaped attention upon Prince Aegon and Aemond, while Jace was left with scraps to help Luke improve his piss-poor fighting skills.

Today was one such training session. His uncles' forms were being corrected by their instructor, widening their stances and perfecting their thrusts. Jace and Luke were ignored, hacking away at the straw dummies until Ser Criston felt generous enough to come over and berate them for their technique and knock them and their wooden swords into the sand, Aegon snickering in the background. Luke was still young enough to believe all he need do was apply himself and try harder. Then mayhaps Ser Criston would throw a kind word his way as a dog would receive a bone. Sweet, earnest Luke, who always saw the best in others, who tried and tried. Jace had not the heart to tell his little brother that this was nothing either of them could remedy or relieve. Luke still believed Ser Laenor Velaryon their true sire. Jace would not be the one to assuage him of that notion.

"Keep your knees bent, Prince Aegon, or when I do this-" Criston shouldered Aegon, tipping him over. Jace's uncle lost his balance and went sprawling, arse first, into the sand of the training yard "-you'll do that," the Kingsguard explained, moving to help Aegon rise.

The prince knocked his hand away, snapping insults at Aemond, who was barely containing a grin. Jace maintained a neutral expression, turning back to Luke merrily swinging at one of the straw targets with gusto. Utterly oblivious.

His form was atrocious. He swung with stiff, unbending movements that lacked any semblance of the fluidity needed in combat, driving into the straw with the entire weight of his little body. Jace moved to correct it before Ser Criston saw and turned his ire upon them. Unfortunately, it was too late.

"Jacaerys!" the Kingsguard shouted, advancing upon them as Jace attempted to fix his brother's grip. "Do you find my instruction to be lacking?" he asked, looming over them both. His dark hair gleamed in the midday light. Jace dropped his hands from his brother's shoulder, where he had been guiding him.

"No, Ser."

Ser Criston's gaze was as cold as the queen's when he peered at them. "Then why are you distracting Lucerys?"

Jace averted his gaze from the knight, focusing on the sand coating the tip of his brown leather boot. He was a descendant of Aegon the Conqueror, second in line to The Iron Throne. A future king of The Seven Kingdoms. And yet.