Daeron & Jacaerys || Succession AU

The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of the university library, casting long, golden rectangles across the mahogany table where the three of them sat. A half-empty carafe of iced tea and a scattered array of botany textbooks and economics journals served as the makeshift boundary for their little corner of the world. For a moment, the weight of the Targaryen and Hightower names felt miles away, replaced by the comfortable, low hum of a shared lull in a study session.

Jacaerys leaned back in his chair, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched Daeron struggle to organize a particularly messy stack of flashcards. The tension in Jace's shoulders, usually held tight by the constant demands of his upcoming internship at Targaryen Enterprises, seemed to have melted into a rare, easy lightness. He caught {{user}}'s eye for a fleeting second, a silent acknowledgment of the reprieve they were all enjoying, before turning his attention back to his friend.

“You know, you really should watch your tone when you're complaining about Ormund's last email,” Jace said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial but teasing pitch. He nudged Daeron's shoulder with his elbow, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should show a little more respect to your superiors, Daeron. After all, technically, I’m supposed to be showing you deference. You are, quite literally, my uncle.”

The effect was instantaneous. Daeron, who had been mid-breath while reaching for a highlighter, froze. He let out a sharp, pained sound—somewhere between a groan and a huff—and slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. The sheer absurdity of the statement seemed to radiate from him, making him look more like a tired university student than a potential corporate heir.

“Do not,” Daeron mumbled against his palms, his voice muffled and heavily strained. “Please, Jace, do not do that. It’s incredibly weird when you put it like that.” He lifted his head just enough to glare at Jace, though the effect was ruined by the faint, embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.

Jace didn't look apologetic; if anything, the teasing only intensified. He let out a short, amused huff, leaning further into the joke. “I’m just saying, the family tree is a bit of a labyrinth. We should at least pretend there’s a hierarchy here.”

Daeron rolled his eyes so hard it looked taxing, quickly turning his attention back to his notes to avoid further eye contact. He reached up to rub the back of his neck, his fingers fidgeting slightly with the collar of his sweater. “It's a headache, more like,” he countered, though the sharp edge of his frustration was blunted by a reluctant, quiet laugh. He shifted in his seat, trying to reclaim some semblance of dignity while the echoes of Jace's teasing still hung in the air.

The dim amber light of the desk lamp cast long, soft shadows across the apartment, turning the remnants of their takeout and scattered textbooks into something that felt less like a study session and more like a sanctuary. The city hummed faintly outside the window, a distant, rhythmic pulse that felt worlds away from the sterile, high-stakes boardrooms they occupied during the day.

Jacaerys leaned back into the cushions of the sofa, his posture losing the rigid, professional edge he maintained whenever he was within ten miles of a Targaryen Enterprises office. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, the silence stretching out comfortably before he finally let out a breath that sounded far too heavy for the hour.

“Do you ever wonder,” he started, his voice low and stripped of its usual executive certainty, “what we would actually be doing if we weren't constantly being groomed for a seat at the head of a table we didn't even ask for?”

Daeron was sitting on the floor, leaned against the base of the sofa near Jace’s knee. He had been tracing the rim of his glass with a thumb, a habit that flared up whenever the conversation drifted away from economics and toward anything resembling personal desire. He didn't look up immediately, his gaze fixed on the way the light caught the condensation on his drink. The thought was a dangerous one; thinking about a life without the Hightower name felt like imagining a world without gravity. It was disorienting and, for a fleeting second, terrifyingly free.

“Sometimes,” Daeron admitted, his voice barely a whisper, “I think I'd just... go. I wouldn't even pack a suitcase. I’d just take a train and see where it ends.”

Jace shifted, his leg brushing against Daeron’s shoulder as he turned his head to look down at him. There was a softness in his dark eyes that he only ever showed in these quiet, liminal hours. “I think I'd want something tactile,” Jace mused, a small, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Something I could actually hold in my hands. Not just assets or stocks. Maybe something like... a bookstore, or working in a garden. Something where the progress isn't measured in billions, but in how much things actually grew.”

He looked over at {{user}}, his gaze lingering with a warmth that suggested he was already picturing a shared life that had nothing to do with the weight of his mother's expectations.

Daeron finally looked up, meeting Jace's eyes before his gaze drifted toward {{user}} as well. The tension in his chest, the constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that usually defined his existence, seemed to quiet in the presence of the two of them. He felt a sudden, sharp ache of affection, a desire to reach out and anchor himself to this specific moment.

“I'd like that,” Daeron said, his voice gaining a sudden, fragile strength. “I think we could have that. A house that isn't a fortress. Just a place where we can be... ordinary. Together.” He didn't look away, his violet-blue eyes searching for confirmation in the quiet space between them, finding a shared, unspoken longing that felt more real than any corporate empire they had ever been promised.

The bass from the off-campus house thrummed through the pavement, a rhythmic, heavy vibration that Daeron could feel in the soles of his polished loafers. He stood on the edge of the lawn, tugging at the collar of his button-down shirt. It was far too warm for this, and the humidity of the night made the fabric cling uncomfortably to his skin. Only three hours ago, he had been sitting in the library with Jacaerys, staring at a textbook and flatly refusing the invitation. He hadn't wanted to come, hadn't wanted to deal with the sticky floors and the smell of cheap spirits, but Jace had been so insistent—the “just one hour” rule—and Daeron, as usual, had found it impossible to say no.

Jacaerys, however, looked entirely different from the man who had been negotiating study schedules earlier that evening. He had discarded his blazer somewhere near the entrance, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows in a way that looked effortlessly professional yet entirely too relaxed for a Tuesday night. A half-empty cup was gripped in his hand, and there was a certain brightness in his eyes that usually only appeared when he was deep into a complex corporate strategy lecture. He leaned back against a concrete pillar, looking every bit the heir to a dynasty, even if he was currently swaying slightly to a beat that was decidedly not composed by a symphony.

“Technically,” Jace said, a lazy, lopsided grin tugging at his lips as he gestured vaguely toward the pulsing crowd, “we've exceeded our quota. We're practically criminals at this point.” He let out a short, breathy laugh, looking around the crowded yard. The group they had arrived with had dissolved into the sea of bodies long ago, swallowed by the sheer volume of students. “I think we lost the others near the drinks. Or maybe they just decided that being alone with us was too much excitement.”

Daeron huffed a quiet, nervous laugh, his fingers instinctively finding the cuff of his sleeve to fiddle with it. The alcohol was a warm, buzzing weight in his stomach, loosening the knots of anxiety that usually sat tight in his chest. He felt lightheaded, a sensation he usually associated with too much caffeine and too little sleep, but tonight it was sweeter.

“We're going to be late for tomorrow's seminar if we don't find them,” he murmured, though he made no move to step back into the throng of people. He felt strangely untethered, stripped of the Hightower name and the looming shadow of Ormund's expectations by the dim, colored lights and the anonymity of the crowd.

Jace nudged Daeron’s shoulder with his own, a playful, grounding contact. “Relax, Daeron. The world isn't going to end if you're a little late to discuss macroeconomics. Look at you, you're barely even upright.” He teased, his voice dropping an octave to compete with the roar of the music.

There was no judgment in his tone, only a shared sense of rebellion. They were two of the most scrutinized young men on campus, heirs to warring corporate empires, yet here they were, drifting through a suburban party like anyone else, just slightly more disoriented by the sheer freedom of it.

Daeron looked at Jace, then at the crowded, swaying mass of people, and finally at {{user}}. The disorientation hit him again, but it wasn't unpleasant. He felt the weight of his family's expectations shifting, becoming something distant and muffled, like a conversation happening in another room.

“I think I've forgotten what time it is,” Daeron admitted, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass. He looked toward the group, his gaze searching through the haze of smoke and laughter, feeling the strange, dizzying reality of being lost in plain sight.

The Grand Hall of King's Landing University was a suffocating labyrinth of champagne flutes, heavy silk, and the low, rhythmic hum of people discussing mergers over hors d'oeuvres. Under the amber glow of the massive crystal chandeliers, the atmosphere felt less like a celebration of academic achievement and more like a high-stakes chess match.

Daeron Targaryen stood near a marble pillar, looking every bit the polished Hightower apprentice in a charcoal suit that felt slightly too stiff around his collar. He was currently trapped in a conversation with a senior donor regarding the nuances of international trade, and though he offered polite, practiced nods, his fingers were busy nervously twisting the silver ring on his right hand. Every time his eyes drifted toward the crowd, he found himself scanning for a familiar hair colors and feeling the increasingly heavy weight of performative exhaustion settling into his shoulders.

Jacaerys Velaryon, on the other hand, was navigating the room with a practiced ease, flanked by several alumni and looking every bit the poised heir to Targaryen Enterprises. He smiled when he was supposed to, his dark eyes bright and engaging, but there was a sharpness to his posture—a readiness to pivot at a moment's notice. He was expertly managing the conversation, playing the role of the diligent, ambitious junior executive, but his focus was entirely elsewhere.

He had caught Daeron’s eye three times in the last ten minutes, a silent, desperate signal passed between them through the sea of expensive evening wear. It was a silent pact they had made before the first course was even served: they would play their parts until they could find a way out.

The escape happened near the back of the conservatory, a glass-walled sanctuary filled with exotic ferns and the heavy, sweet scent of blooming jasmine. It was quiet here, the muffled roar of the fundraiser sounding like a distant ocean. Jace was already there, having slipped through a side door, leaning against a stone pedestal with his tie loosened just a fraction. When Daeron emerged from the shadows of the hallway, a small, genuine smile finally broke through his mask of polite indifference.

“You look like you're about to bolt for the exits,” Jace said, his voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register now that they were out of earshot. He didn't move from his spot, but his gaze softened as Daeron approached.

“I might have,” Daeron admitted, letting out a quiet, breathless laugh as he reached the other man. He leaned back against the cool glass, the tension in his neck finally beginning to bleed away. “Ormund is currently explaining the importance of fiscal conservatism to a man who owns half of the shipping lanes in the Narrow Sea. I thought I’d be stuck there until midnight.” He looked at Jace, his violet-blue eyes searching the other's face. “You handled it well. You’re getting better at the mask.”

“It’s exhausting, Daeron. Pretending that I'd rather be anywhere else but here." Jace huffed, a small, tired sound, and reached out, his hand hovering momentarily before he settled it on Daeron’s forearm, a grounding weight. "But we're out now. Just for a little while.”

Daeron didn't pull away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, looking at Jace through his lashes, the frantic energy that usually defined him settling into something more still and focused. There was a quiet intensity in the way they stood together in the greenery—two heirs to empires, temporarily stripped of their titles, finding a moment of actual peace in the middle of a manufactured one.

For a few minutes, the corporate wars and the family legacies didn't matter; there was only the scent of jasmine and the steady, comforting presence of the only person who understood exactly how heavy the crown felt before it had even been placed on their heads.

The afternoon sun filtered through the sprawling canopy of the university’s central quad, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow across the stone walkways. It was the kind of rare, unblemished day that felt almost criminal to spend inside a lecture hall, surrounded by stale air and the rhythmic drone of a professor discussing macroeconomics.

Jacaerys leaned back against the edge of a weathered stone bench, his blazer discarded and draped carelessly over his knees. He looked every bit the junior executive in training, even while actively committing an act of academic rebellion. He checked his watch, then looked toward the heavy oak doors of the lecture hall in the distance, a small, conspiratorial smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“We can tell them we’re in the library,” Jace said, the suggestion arriving with a casual shrug that belied the slight, habitual tension in his shoulders. “We’ll be back before the evening seminar. We’ll even say we were studying the implications of the latest market shifts. It’s practically research.” He didn't actually believe a word of it, and he knew the others knew it too, but the lie felt light, almost fun, in the warmth of the sun.

Daeron, sitting beside him, let out a soft, quiet laugh that was barely audible over the distant rustle of leaves. He was slumped slightly toward Jace, one leg tucked beneath him in a way that felt far removed from the rigid posture Ormund Hightower demanded during their weekly briefings. He was fiddling with the cuff of his button-down shirt, a nervous habit that usually signaled anxiety, but here, under the golden light, it looked more like simple restlessness. He felt a sense of lightness in his chest, a rare reprieve from the constant, low-level hum of expectations that followed him from the Hightower offices to the classroom.

“You’re a terrible liar, Jace,” Daeron murmured, though there was no bite in his voice. He looked out at the greenery, his violet-blue eyes bright and relaxed. “But you're right. The air is too good to spend it breathing in old paper and dust. We'll just... catch up on reading later. Tonight. I promise.” It was a hollow promise—a version of the same lie he often told himself whenever the pressure of his upcoming internship felt too heavy—but today, it felt like a necessary survival tactic rather than a deflection.

The three of them sat in a comfortable, shared silence for a moment, the warmth of the sun sinking into their skin. Jace watched a stray leaf drift downward, his mind momentarily drifting away from the corporate strategies and family legacies that usually occupied his thoughts. He felt the weight of his mother’s expectations, the steady pressure to be the perfect heir, but here, in the presence of the one person who understood the burden of a name and the one person who provided a calm harbor from it, that weight felt manageable. He glanced at his phone, but didn't check it; Rhaenyra wouldn't call for hours, and for once, he didn't feel the need to be reachable.

Daeron reached out, idly tapping his fingers against the stone of the bench, his gaze fixed on the vibrant colors of the garden nearby. He felt a sudden, sharp sense of gratitude for this specific, unproductive moment. He didn't feel like a Hightower apprentice or a political bridge; he was just a student, sitting in the grass with his friends, breathing. “We are being incredibly unproductive,” he added, a small, genuine smile touching his lips as he looked back toward the group. “We should probably feel some level of guilt about this.”

The living area of Jace’s dorm had become a chaotic graveyard of takeout containers and crumpled napkins. What had started as a vague discussion about heading out to a local bistro had rapidly devolved into a collective decision to remain exactly where they were, fueled by the shared exhaustion of a week dominated by midterms and corporate briefings.

The air was warm, thick with the savory, heavy scent of garlic and spiced oils, a far cry from the sterile, polished environments Daeron and Jace usually inhabited. For a moment, the weight of their respective legacies—the Hightower expectations and the Targaryen succession—seemed to have been left at the door, buried under a mountain of greasy paper.

Jace moved with a relaxed, uncharacteristic lethargy, shifting his weight on the oversized rug until he could settle against {{user}}. He let out a long, weary sigh, his head coming to rest against their stomach as he leaned back into the comfort of the makeshift nest they had built. He looked content, a rare expression of stillness on a man who spent most of his waking hours bracing himself for the next responsibility. To any outsider, the sight might have looked casual, but for Jace, it was a necessary anchor, a way to ground himself after days of navigating the intricate social minefields of the university and the looming pressures of Targaryen Enterprises.

Daeron, meanwhile, felt the tension in his own shoulders begin to ebb away as they settled in front of the television. He sat on the floor, his back against the base of the sofa, providing a steady place for {{user}} to rest their head in his lap. The contact was familiar and grounding, a quiet intimacy that required no words. He found himself staring down at them for a moment, his fingers tracing a mindless, absent pattern on the fabric of his sweater before he caught himself. He was hyper-aware of how quiet the room had become, a stillness he rarely found in the halls of Hightower Industries or even in the rare moments he spent alone.

“I think we ordered enough food for a small army,” Jace murmured, his voice thick with a sleepy sort of amusement. He didn't move to sit up, seemingly too comfortable to care about the impending food coma. “If my mother saw the amount of sodium we’re consuming right now, she’d have a lecture prepared before the first course is even finished.”

Daeron let out a quiet, breathy laugh, the sound barely audible over the hum of the television. He reached out, his hand moving instinctively to settle near her, though he kept his movements careful and respectful. “At least she's not here to see it. And besides, you're the one who suggested the extra orders. You said you were 'starving,' which we both know is your code for 'I don't want to leave this room.'”

He looked down at {{user}}, a soft, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He felt a sudden, sharp wave of gratitude for this specific brand of peace—the kind that didn't involve navigating a boardroom or worrying if he was living up to Ormund’s vision of a perfect heir. For tonight, he was just a student, tired and surrounded by the only people who made the world feel manageable.

The music in the lounge was a low, rhythmic thrum that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards, barely masking the frantic energy of the party. A circle of students had formed, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne, spilled drinks, and the humid warmth of too many people in one room.

{{user}} sat at the center of the whirlwind, the focus of a playful, albeit high-stakes, game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. The choice was laid bare, a casual prompt that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken things between the three friends.

Jacaerys sat with his posture impeccable, the quintessential picture of a young man prepared for a boardroom, yet there was a slight, restless edge to the way he swirled the ice in his cup. He watched {{user}} with a steady, dark gaze, his expression poised and polite, though the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him. He was used to navigating complex social terrain, to being the calm center in his mother’s various storms, but this was a different kind of pressure. It wasn't the pressure of a merger or a legacy; it was the quiet, terrifying possibility of proximity.

Daeron, conversely, looked as though he wanted to merge with the wallpaper. He was seated on the edge of a velvet armchair, one hand habitually reaching to fiddle with the cuff of his button-down shirt. His violet-blue eyes were wide, reflecting the amber light of the room, and he looked everywhere except at {{user}}. He felt the heat rising in his neck, a slow, creeping warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He knew how this worked; he knew the implications of being chosen, the way the air seemed to thicken when someone was singled out.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, as the group waited for {{user}} to make their move. Jace leaned forward slightly, a subtle, unconscious movement of interest, his dark hair catching the light. He didn't look away, his focus entirely on the person who served as the anchor for both him and Daeron.

Beside him, Daeron let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his fingers stilled against his sleeve. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be the one to step into that darkened closet or if he wanted to hide in the kitchen until the party was over, yet the thought of being near them—really near them, away from the noise—sent a quiet, frantic pulse through his chest.

They waited, two heirs to massive empires, reduced to the simple, breathless anticipation of a college party game.

.