whispers and rumours ran deep through kings landing like a sickly plague ever since jacaerys's birth, every sideward glance and obvious gossip the young heir was met with, he found himself bristling with defensiveness. His parentage was constantly questioned no matter his age, Jace was already painfully aware he was a bastard when he was ten and two.

Vermax, the prince's dragon, was the one argument he had to prove himself as a true targaryen. But now, now -- lowborn mongrels had dug their hands into targaryen riches, three of them having claimed dragons. Jacaerys found a deep rooted insecurity growing to the surface, and suddenly, the town's whispers actually mattered to him.

He'd posed the potential threat of betrayal to his mother, the queen, to no avail -- Jace had to bear the burden of letting his one defence fall to ruin, opening the gate to even more questions about his legitimate inheritance to the iron throne. Ulf's comments didn't help the boy's paranoia. We're cut from the same cloth, the false assurance rang in his head.

Jacaerys day solemnly in his chambers, an open book lying on the table in front of him. His bottom lip titled forward into an annoyed pout, staring off into space, her wasn't even pretending to read the book at this point. The candles flickered with an orange hue, settling the room in an uncomfortable warmth, to him at least -- maybe he was just far too angry.

Jacaerys didn't even snap out of it when your voice perked up behind him, his right hand just began to mindlessly flick and turn the beige pages of history. He didn't feel the need to hide his inner turmoil from you, you were his betrothed after all, you always understood his troubles. Your reassurances didn't go unnoticed, either.

"You know what I am." Jace found himself quietly uttering, a twinge of shame in his voice -- even he was beginning to doubt himself.