The Price I'd Pay for You
Jacerys Velaryon
jacaerys velaryon x forbiddenlove!reader
In the Red Keep, you are a Targaryen princess caught between duty and desire, a living sacrifice to political alliances. Since childhood, you've harbored a forbidden love for Jacerys Velaryon, a love he's always returned. But when your father arranges your betrothal to your own brother, Aegon, everything you've hoped for comes crashing down.
A story of forbidden love, political intrigue, and the impossible choice between the duty you were born to and the life you were meant to have.
genre/warnings: suggestive content, 18+ minors do not interact! childhood friends to lovers, forbidden love, yearning and longing and all the things that make something desirable to read. // suggestive content, angst, fluff, familial sexual relationships, its GOT universe you know the vibe.
chapter 4 word count: 2862
notes: I have genuinely read this chapter over and over again and I actually don't even like it anymore LOL I need to post it before I try to rewrite it from scratch. Enjoy!
© INDEBTEDTO-YOU. Do not copy, repost, modify or feed my work in to AI.
Chapter 4
Your handmaidens dressed you in green.
Of course it was green. Your mother had chosen the gown herself, deep emerald silk that caught the light like dragon scales, with gold embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. It was beautiful. It was suffocating. The fabric was heavy, weighing you down with every breath, the neckline high and formal, nothing like the simpler dresses you preferred.
"You look like a queen, my lady," one of the handmaidens said as she fastened the final clasp.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror. A stranger looked back. Your silver hair had been braided and pinned into an elaborate style, woven through with gold thread and tiny emeralds. Your face was pale, your eyes too bright. You looked older than eighteen. You looked like someone playing a part in a mummer's show, costumed for tragedy.
"Thank you," you managed, your voice distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
When they finally left you alone, you stood at the window and looked out over King's Landing. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson. Blood and fire, the words of your house. Somewhere in the Red Keep, Jace was preparing for the feast too. You wondered what he was thinking. You wondered if his hands were shaking the way yours were.
Your pulse fluttered at the thought of seeing him tonight. Despite everything, despite your mother's warnings, despite Helaena's prophecies, despite the growing dread that had been building for weeks, you still felt that spark of hope. Maybe your father would surprise everyone. Maybe Rhaenyra's proposal had been reconsidered. Maybe, impossibly, there was still a chance.
You touched the emerald pendant at your throat, a gift from your mother that morning. It pressed against your skin like a brand.
A knock at the door made you turn.
"It's time, my lady," a guard said. "The court is waiting."
You took a deep breath, smoothed your skirts, walked toward whatever future had been decided for you.
The Great Hall was magnificent.
Hundreds of candles blazed in the chandeliers overhead, casting golden light across the long tables laden with food and wine. Banners hung from the high ceiling: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, the seahorse of House Velaryon, the tower of House Hightower. Musicians played in the corner, a lively tune that felt at odds with the tension thrumming beneath the celebration like a plucked string about to snap.
Everyone who mattered was here. Lords and ladies from across the realm, dressed in their finest silks and velvets, all gathered to celebrate your eighteenth nameday. They smiled and bowed as you entered. You forced yourself to smile back, to play the part of the gracious princess.
You could feel it, though. The weight of too many eyes. The whispers that stopped when you passed. The way conversations seemed charged with something unspoken, something waiting.
You were seated at the high table, near your father. King Viserys looked tired, older than his years, the flesh of his face sagging like melted wax. He smiled when he saw you, though.
"My daughter," he said warmly, taking your hand. "Eighteen years old. How time passes."
"Thank you, Father," you said, kissing his cheek.
Your mother sat on his other side, regal in her own green gown, her expression serene. Too serene. When she looked at you, there was something in her eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Vindication. It made your stomach twist.
Aegon sat further down the table, already drinking heavily despite the feast having barely begun. He didn't look at you. Aemond was beside him, sharp-eyed and watchful as a hawk. Helaena sat quietly, staring at something no one else could see, her lips moving soundlessly.
Across the hall, at a table with the other highborn guests, you saw him.
He was dressed in the colors of House Velaryon, deep blue and silver, impossibly handsome in the candlelight. When your eyes met, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of you. He gave you a small smile, barely there. You felt it like a touch. Your chest tightened.
For a moment, you let yourself believe. You let yourself hope.
The feast began. Servants brought course after course: roasted meats, fresh bread, honeyed fruits, wine that flowed like water. You barely tasted any of it. Every bite turned to ash in your mouth. You drank wine to steady your nerves, yet it only made you feel more unmoored, more aware of the wrongness settling over the hall like a funeral shroud.
You kept glancing at Jace. He was seated beside his mother, who looked tense despite her composed expression. Luke was there too, laughing at something Jace said, oblivious to the undercurrent of dread.
Your father stood. The music stopped. The hall fell silent so quickly it was as though the air had been sucked from the room. Hundreds of faces turned toward the high table, toward King Viserys, toward you.
Your pulse began to pound in your ears.
"My lords and ladies," your father began, his voice carrying across the hall. "Thank you for joining us tonight to celebrate my daughter's eighteenth nameday. She has grown into a woman of grace and beauty, a true daughter of House Targaryen."
Polite applause rippled through the crowd. You forced yourself to smile. Your hands were trembling in your lap.
"As king, it is my duty to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm," Viserys continued. "As a father, it is my duty to see my children well placed, their futures secured."
Your throat closed.
"Tonight, I am pleased to announce a betrothal that will strengthen our house and unite our bloodline."
The room seemed to tilt. You gripped the edge of the table, your knuckles white.
"My daughter will be wed to Prince Aegon, my eldest son."
The words hit you like a mace to the chest. For a moment, you couldn't process what you'd just heard. The sounds of the hall became muffled, distant, as though you were drowning. Aegon. Your brother. The drunken, resentful prince who could barely stand upright.
The hall erupted in applause and cheers. The sound was wrong, distorted, like hearing celebration from the bottom of a well. Your vision blurred at the edges. You felt your mother's hand on your arm, steadying you. You couldn't look at her. Couldn't look at anyone.
"This union," your father continued, his voice swelling with conviction, "will ensure that the Targaryen line remains pure and strong. It will prevent division, prevent the realm from tearing itself apart over questions of succession. This is our legacy. This is our duty."
Duty. The word echoed in your mind, hollow and cruel. You forced yourself to look up, to scan the crowd. Your eyes found him.
Jace was staring at you. The expression on his face shattered what was left of your composure.
Devastation. Pure, unfiltered devastation.
His face had gone pale as milk. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jumping. His hands were fists on the table, knuckles white as bone. For a moment, he looked like he might stand, might shout, might do something reckless and desperate.
He didn't.
He just stared at you. In his eyes, you saw everything you felt reflected back: fury, helplessness, love, the terrible, crushing weight of finality. This was it. This was the end. The moth's wings had caught fire.
Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them. You didn't care who saw. You didn't care about propriety or composure or playing the part of the dutiful princess. You just stared at Jace across the hall. He stared back. The space between you was an ocean, a chasm, the end of the world.
Beside him, Rhaenyra's face was a mask of fury barely contained. Her hand was on Jace's arm, holding him in place, keeping him from doing something that would destroy them all. She looked at you with something like pity, like sorrow. She'd tried to stop this. She'd failed.
Your mother leaned close, whispered, "Smile, daughter. This is a joyous occasion."
You wanted to scream. Aegon stood instead, raising his goblet of the reddest wine.
The hall quieted again, waiting for the prince's response. Your brother swayed slightly. He was already drunk. He steadied himself, looked out at the crowd.
"I am honored," he said, his voice flat and unconvincing, "to accept this betrothal. My sister is... a worthy match."
The words were perfunctory, empty. He didn't look at you. He stared somewhere over the crowd's heads, his expression resentful and bitter as gall.
"I will do my duty," he continued. There was an edge to his voice now, something sharp and angry. "As we all must. As we are all expected to. Duty above all else, is that not what we're taught?"
Your father frowned slightly. Aegon wasn't finished.
"I accept this union because I am a prince of House Targaryen, and princes do not have the luxury of choice. So yes, Father, I accept."
The hall was silent now, the tension thick enough to choke on.
Aegon finally looked at you. For just a moment, you saw something in his eyes. Not desire, not affection. Something almost like understanding. He knew what it was like to have your life dictated by others. He knew what it was like to be trapped in a cage of duty and expectation.
"To my future wife," he said, raising his cup in a mocking toast. "May we both survive what's been decided for us."
He drank deeply, then sat down heavily, ignoring your father's disapproving look.
The applause that followed was uncertain, scattered. People didn't know how to react to Aegon's bitter acceptance. It didn't matter. The betrothal had been announced. The decision had been made.
You were going to marry your brother. Your eyes found Jace again.
He was still staring at you. The look on his face was unbearable.
In that glance, you saw everything: every stolen kiss, every whispered promise, every night spent in each other's arms. You saw the future you'd imagined together, the life you'd dreamed of, the love you'd nurtured in secret for seven years.
You saw it all crumbling to dust.
His expression told you he understood. This wasn't a temporary setback. This wasn't something you could overcome with clever planning or desperate hope. This was the end. The final, irrevocable end.
You would marry Aegon. You would stand before the Sept and pledge yourself to your brother. You would share his bed, bear his children, live the rest of your life as his wife. Jace would have to watch.
A sob caught in your throat. You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to hold it back. It was useless. Across the hall, Jace's jaw clenched. His eyes were bright with unshed tears. Then he stood.
The hall went quiet. Everyone turned to look at him.
"Congratulations, Princess," he said, his voice rough and strained. "I wish you every happiness."
The words were formal, appropriate, exactly what he was supposed to say. His eyes told a different story.
His eyes said I love you.
His eyes said I'm sorry.
His eyes said Remember us.
He bowed, a perfect, formal bow. Then he turned and walked out of the Great Hall.
Rhaenyra rose to follow him, not before shooting your father a look of pure fury. You watched him go, watched him disappear through the doors. Something inside you broke beyond repair.
The rest of the feast passed in a blur.
People approached you. Lords and ladies offering congratulations, speaking words you didn't hear, smiling smiles that didn't reach their eyes. You nodded and thanked them mechanically, your voice coming from somewhere far away.
Your mother appeared at your side, her hand on your shoulder.
"You did well," she said quietly. "I know this is difficult. You'll understand in time, though. This is what's best for the realm. What's best for our family."
You couldn't look at her. If you looked at her, you would say something you couldn't take back.
"He was never a real option," Alicent continued, her voice gentle yet firm. "Jacerys is a bastard, no matter what his mother and the King claim. You are a trueborn princess of House Targaryen. You deserve better than-"
"Stop," you whispered.
"Daughter-"
"Please just stop talking."
Your mother's lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing more. After a moment, she moved away, leaving you alone in the crowd.
You saw Rhaenyra across the hall. You wanted to go to her, to thank her, to apologize for something that wasn't your fault. You couldn't move, though. You were frozen in place, drowning in a sea of congratulations and false smiles.
Finally, when you couldn't bear it anymore, you stood.
"I need air," you said to no one in particular.
You walked out of the Great Hall, your green gown trailing behind you. No one stopped you. No one followed. They let you go, let you escape, because what did it matter now? The announcement had been made. The damage was done.
Your chambers were a tomb.
You closed the door behind you and leaned against it, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room was dark except for the moonlight streaming through the windows. Everything looked the same as it had this morning: your bed, your desk, your books. Nothing would ever be the same again, though.
You were betrothed to Aegon.
The reality of it crashed over you in waves, each one more suffocating than the last.
You would have to marry him. Let him kiss you in front of the realm. Share his bed. Let him touch you the way Jace had touched you. The thought made bile rise in your throat. You stumbled to the window, pressing your forehead against the cool glass, trying to think, trying to process the enormity of what had just happened.
The future you'd imagined, desperately hoped for, was gone. The promises you'd made to each other, that you'd find a way, that love would be enough, were nothing now. Love wasn't enough. It had never been enough.
You remembered the way he'd looked at you across the hall. The devastation in his eyes. The way he'd said I wish you every happiness when you both knew you would never be happy again. A sob tore from your throat, then another. Then you were crying so hard your chest ached. You sank to the floor, your elaborate gown pooling around you, let yourself break.
You cried for the future you'd lost. For the boy you loved and could never have. For the life you'd been forced into. For the duty that had destroyed everything beautiful and good.
You cried until there were no tears left, until you were empty and hollow and numb. Then you just sat there in the darkness, staring at nothing, feeling nothing.
Somewhere in the Red Keep, Jace was doing the same. You knew it with a certainty that made your chest ache. He was alone in his chambers, breaking apart the same way you were, mourning the same loss.
You couldn't go to him, though. You couldn't comfort him. You couldn't even send him a message.
That part of your life was over.
You were betrothed to Prince Aegon. Your duty was clear. The girl who had loved Jacerys Velaryon in secret, who had stolen moments in gardens and whispered promises in the dark, that girl was gone.
You had to bury her. You had to forget her. You had to become someone else. Someone who could survive this.
Outside your window, the moon rose higher, cold and distant and uncaring. The Red Keep settled into silence. The feast was over, the celebration was done. You sat alone in the darkness wearing a green dress that was a shroud. All you could do was try to figure out how to keep living when your soul had been ripped from your chest.
Tomorrow, you would have to face Aegon. Tomorrow, you would have to begin planning a wedding you didn't want. Tomorrow, you would have to pretend that everything was fine, that you were honored, that you accepted your duty with grace.
But tonight, you let yourself grieve.
You grieved for Jace. For yourself. For the love that had been beautiful and impossible and doomed from the very start. You understood, finally, what Helaena had been trying to tell you all along.
The moth sees the flame and thinks it beautiful. It doesn't see the heat. It doesn't feel the burning until it's too late.
You had flown too close to the flame and now there was nothing left but ash.
Taglist: @claerysa , @nutellatacollama , @glooblyglob
