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2 - a dragon's dream

Dragonstone looked more like a tomb than a war command.

The death of Princess Rhaenys has considerably shaken the stability of the Queen's Council. With another dragon lost and without one of his mother's main supporters to defend her claim, Jace is forced to stitch together an already shaky quilt to keep the loyalists united.

The death of Lord Corlys' lady wife dealt a heavy blow to him. And the old man didn't mince his hateful words when the tragic news of Rook’s Rest arrived; no one blamed him; not really. After all, he was wrecked with grief and sadness of a widower, and all the people in Dragonstone had already lost someone to the war: from their close kin to their beloved Prince.

The threat of losing the Velaryon fleet, however, forces Jace to act rightly towards both his mother and the Sea Snake. Corlys argued, with ominous words before the Council, "How can I serve a queen who carries all my family to death and disgrace? "

It was only Rhaenyra herself who stopped Ser Steffon Darklyn from silencing him, stating, "Do you honestly think I wouldn't trade my own life with the Stranger to get all of them home?" as she fell back on her throne with sobbing sniffles, muttering about her sweet little boy. 

Everyone knew that Lucerys' death had cast a terrible shadow over the queen's temper; the princess' death, however, had made her almost paranoid in her regrets; if Jace looked long enough, he could almost see the chains of grief that his mother now dragged with her wherever she went.

None of the other lords on the Council tried to make their own points; after all, it was a family affair. Jace, however, saw their apprehensive gazes crossing the Painted Table. Unanswered questions burned the ears of these men and put at risk the small military forces that had gathered in the name of their Houses. 

"It's not your desolation that will give you King's Landing, or avenge the dead" Corlys declared, overwhelmed by his pain. "It's your dragon. May the gods protect us until that day! Do you honestly believe that Aegon the Conqueror would overlook the slaughter of his kin in such circumstances? That he wouldn't respond with fire and blood ?"

“Don't tell me stories you don't know about, Lord Corlys.” Says the queen, her voice shaking with anger this time, "And remember the fate that awaits any kinslayer. More than cursed, worse than death ."  

“If you refuse to accept your mistakes and rule, then I refuse to hand over my men to raise a headless army. Before all the soldiers turn to ashes in your hands.”

As the Council disbands and the wax from the melted candles covers the ground, Jace walks up to the far tower of The Windwyrm. He marches with one hand on his belt and the other tucked into the folds of his doublet, groping for a small gold brooch entrusted to him by his mother shortly before the Rook's Rest news arrived. 

The guardsmen don't prevent him from reaching Princess Rhaenys' chambers, bowing to him from behind black iron helmets. Jacaerys was still the prince of the island, after all.

He finds his grandsire standing still, arms crossed, in front of a single open window, while all the others remain closed and covered by thick blood-red curtains. The chamber still smells of the sickly perfume the princess had always worn: dragon's breath and sea foam . Jace wondered if it was Corlys' way of pretending she was still there. 

"I'm not withdrawing your brothers' escort, if that's what you're worried about." The old man says so solemnly as Jace's footsteps echo through the room.

"I never thought you'd do that." Replies the prince, taking care to approach slowly, "Not after you gave your word so many days ago."

Corlys chuckles sarcastically but doesn't answer.

"The children sail away on the next moon." The prince offers, agitated by his words. "And Joffrey and Rhaena will soon be leaving for the Vale."

"Does Baela still deny escaping to safety?" Inquired the lord, his voice shadowy with anger.

"She's loyal." He says it calmly. Baela had left no doubt with her intentions of remaining by Jace and the queen's side, and the prince was grateful for that. Without his brothers and with his mother constantly drowning in her grief, she was the closest family he had. "We will do everything within our power to protect the island."

"She has too much of Daemon." That's all Corlys offers. 

"Let's hope she gets more from Lady Laena, then." Jace says, and the words are met with a bitter expression from the man as the prince stares out at the twilight bay.

Corlys waits for him to speak as his curious eyes follow the prince as Jace walks over to the sideboard and pours an unusually large amount of wine into a silver goblet. The other he fills for Corlys. He wonders how many times Princess Rhaenys herself has repeated those same steps on late afternoons like that.

The wine is too hot and bitter, but Jace takes a sip before holding out the other goblet to the Sea Snake and saying, "You're old, Grandsire." That's what he says when the man accepts that terrible Arbor gold.

It has the desired effect when the man laughs sarcastically, "If that's your way of convincing me to side with your mother, your diplomatic skills are terrible ."

Jace smiles softly and takes small sips of his wine before continuing.

"You're not getting any younger, are you?" He asks. "And inheritance is always such a complicated thing. By law, Joffrey is your heir now, and sooner rather than later, he could become Lord of the Tides." He adds carefully. The man turns, staring at him with his eyebrows drawn together.

"A boy of ten and one who throws up on the swing of a ship is no Lord of the Tides. He's the fruit of the previous Lord's unpreparedness." He points out, and Jace presses his lips together to keep from saying his own hateful words. Luke used to get nauseous at sea too, he remembers. Just like Jace himself.

"I'm just following the succession. After my lord father, Laenor…" He points out and sees the man's eyes twitch for a moment: "It's the precedent of kingdoms. Or you could turn to Baela. She is expected to be queen one day, and a queen is not a lord. Then there would be Rhaena. But you don't want her as well. Because a lady is not a lord, either. "

Corlys frowns. “You know your mother's situation is unique. Setting further precedents would cause one more war, this time against all the lords of the realm who have older sisters. The Targaryen aren't paying for a single war; are they going to hold off an entire uprising? Incite another civil war?”

The Targaryen. They.

Jace hums in agreement, "So the Sea Snake will leave this world with no heirs. That is his final intention and the greatest wish of his life. So many voyages, prosperity, and conquests. No legacy. It will all sink into oblivion."

This time, the man’s eyes glowed with a hint of remorse, and something even darker lurked behind his irises. Jace, who had always maintained a cordial relationship with Corlys, wondered what his grandfather was thinking about him at that moment.

"What do you want from me, Prince Jacaerys?" He says it with restrained enmity. "That you can't even respect my grief?"

Jace rests his elbow on the windowsill, staring up at the purplish sky as he speaks. "You want your heir; my mother wants King's Landing. The three of us want to end the war before anyone else in our family perishes." He avoids the man's gaze, pulling a gold brooch engraved with the shape of a hand from inside his coat and dragging it toward him. "Accept this, and I'll know your loyalty hasn't changed. And when the time comes, call in this favor, and I will help you. As the son of your sovereign. And Prince of Dragonstone."

Corlys studies him for a moment, staring into Jace's eyes as if he no longer recognizes him, before settling his gaze on the golden brooch. He rolls it between his fingers, and Jace knows he is tempted to his limits.

"Beware of promises, Jacaerys," Corlys says before taking a long sip of his wine. "Even more so in desperate times."

…desperate times. Would I be so obtuse as to wish for a little more? I think about it every night. And I blame myself every morrow for allowing my thoughts to follow paths so at odds with my very nature. 

Jace drinks in the words until he chokes. That night, he dreams of an untouched godswood, of warmth where his hand is cut, and of promises so distant that he fears he won't live long enough to see them fulfilled. This is the only way he reaches the North now: with the words of a man leagues away and half-real dreams.

The plan to take King's Landing begins to take shape as soon as Corlys overcomes his pride and returns to the Council. The ravens keep coming and going: news from their lords in the Reach showed a cathartic situation in the south, between the Three Towers and Honeyholt, where the threat of Daeron Targaryen's cobalt dragon keeps the armies limited to sneak attacks and minor battles.

Messages from King's Landing spies and men still loyal to Daemon reveal the Dowager Queen's attempts to stop the smallfolk’s diaspora by closing the capital's gates. Rhaenyra believes it would be a sign that once King's Landing is finally taken, the people will stand by the rightful heir. Lord Celtigar argued that they didn't need their support to take the Red Keep, and Corlys grumbled that smallfolk would support anyone who gave them bread after the blockade had withered the population to starvation for so long.

The news also came from further afield: Aemond the Kinslayer had appointed himself as Protector of the Realm and Regent, and was acting on his brother's behalf. The Usurper was still holed up in the Red Keep, half-melted by dragonfire and imprisoned in his armor—a last gift from Meleys and the Queen Who Never Was. 

Some spies report that Alicent Hightower weeps day and night beside her dying son, praying for his recovery. Others said that he had already died and that his body was being guarded because the lords would not fight so fervently for the right of his youngest son, Maelor, to reign.

However, there are no more worries about children ; with Sunfyre incapacitated, it was Vhagar who limited the black’s plans.

"Daemon will lure the Kinslayer out of the city sooner or later." That's what Rhaenyra said, without explaining another word to back up that statement. 

Jace worried about her: his mother had spent long sleepless nights exchanging secret words with Lady Mysaria away from the prince's eyes. Daemon's Whisperer had left on her orders a few nights before. Even Jace didn't know where.

"One more taste of power, and he'll kill the usurper himself. It's Aemond ." Baela added. "And he has Cole as his Hand, controlling his army. They'll gobble each other up like rats gnawing on a rope."

If the queen agrees, she doesn't show it. Underestimating the plans of the Kingmaker was what led to the death of Lords Darklyn, Staunton and the sacking of Rook’s Rest, as well as the loss of Princess Rhaenys.

"We'll wait for the spies. If Prince Aemond's plan is to guard the city, we'll wait." Lord Bar Emmon said, and Jace revolted at the prospect. Waiting patiently would give the Greens the ability to regroup and secure an undeserved advantage.

"We have three dragonriders in this Council, here, ready to fight. And four more were newly bonded to dragonseeds. The old bitch couldn't resist seven of us, even if it was Visenya herself on her back." Jace argues. "And you suggest we give them time to march with an army across the realm?"

"They have no naval power. They won't dare cross the bay." Lord Corlys assures, "But neither will we be able to overcome their numbers on land if the Stormlands and the Reach join Ser Criston's ranks."

Jace points at his grandfather, agreeing.

"We can join Daemon's men in Harrenhal." Argues Lord Bar Emmon. "Mount a resistance with the men of the Vale and march south."

"That's exactly what the enemy would want." Jace says it wryly. “To unite our entire army in one place. Recreate Vhagar's past victories… We'd return to a ruined Dragonstone or worse.”

"Alicent's children are anxious and impatient, and the Kinslayer is the worst of them. He will march. And we will take the Keep when he does." Concludes the queen. She has the same wild eyes as a cornered animal, facing the hunter's gaze.

… like desperate men. They try to save themselves by clinging to their opulence through the simplest of alternatives. A battle wouldn't be a battle if it were simple, right?

Shouldn't we fight for our blood, for our oaths, and for our love? What future will be guided by a Council of cowards?

As time passes, Jace says goodbye to more brothers. Escorted by Velaryon ships, little Aegon and Viserys set off for Pentos on a sunless morning, with clouds covering the entire bay and facilitating their escape. They set sail on a Pentoshi cog named Gay Abandon, Aegon and his little dragon Stormcloud, Viserys clutching an egg with tears dripping from his eyes.

Even so, he is still kept grounded by his mother. The prince seizes the opportunity to fortify alliances with letters, words, and ravens while trying to convince the queen to let him fight. She still dreads the thought of losing yet another son, especially an heir, so there he remains.

The idea of taking the city had been a matter of urgency since the False King's coronation, and became real with the arrival of two ravens as the sun rose again. The first was from Lady Mysaria in the city, telling of the departure of Criston Cole, Vhagar, and the Kinslayer. The second came from Harrenhal, announcing the imminent return of Daemon in a trick to ensnare Aemond Targaryen's army. We will take the city when the sun rises, he wrote.

It was agreed that Rhaenyra and Baela would go with him on their dragons, as well as Silverwing, Vermithor, and Seasmoke and their respective riders, Ulf the White, Hugh the Hammer, and Addam of Hull, the successful results of The Sowing. The other bastard dragon, Sheepstealer, would remain in Dragonstone with the girl Nettles to cover any possible other complications, as would Vermax and Prince Jacaerys.

Everything falls apart, all the same, when, in the night before the assault on King's Landing, the young dragon Stormcloud falls from the sky and buries young Prince Aegon in the sands and rocks that cover Dragonstone. The dragon soon dies. The boy does not.

And what value does an oath have when proclaimed by a man without loyalty? What value does love have when it comes from the lips of a liar? What value does blood have where power resides? This is where the greatest betrayal lies: the one that is born in the comfort of a home. And, Jace, brave dragonknight, do not consider it cowardice that your mother wishes to protect you; the gods know I thank her for doing so when I myself cannot.

Aegon was bigger and more energetic than Rhaenyra's youngest son, Viserys. He liked to read, draw, and write rhymes. He had always been a prodigy for his age and never caused trouble for the maesters and servants. He didn't have much of his father's reckless temperament, nor was he easily irritable like his mother. He loved honey cakes, so on his last name day, Luke asked the cooks to prepare some sugar-coated ones for him. Joffrey liked to get him into trouble. He preferred blue clothes instead of red, which made his mother laugh, saying that he loved his brothers so much that he wished he was Velaryon like them.

The boy who returns from the sea is not the same child from Jace's memories, but a shadow. He calls for Viserys when he can no longer cry and recoils from anyone's touch except his mother's, scratching his own skin when he holds back tears. Rhaenyra sends everyone out except family and the Queensguard while she calms the huddled boy. “It's all right now. Everything will be fine,” she repeats, but Jace knows she doesn’t believe those words.

“Lady Baela has set out to find the ship in the Narrow Sea, Your Grace,” says Ser Adrien of the Queensguard. “Still no news of the King Consort's return.”

Aegon sniffs between sobs, hiding further in his mother’s neck as Jace approaches. He notices with concern that the boy's pants are partially burned, his shins are raw, and his skin is covered in soot and sand. He smells of dragons and salt; his eyes look like death.

"Have my armor prepared, Ser Adrien," says the queen, causing Jace to widen his eyes.

"No, mother," he says, receiving a reproachful look from his mother. They haven't been in the best of moods: Rhaenyra, still deeply pained by Lucerys's death, hardly lets her heir out of her sight day and night. Jace has his freedom to speak in the Council, and much of the Assault on King's Landing was planned with his help, but he has been suspiciously kept away from Vermax.

"If even my weak half-brother rode to war, I will wait no longer," she says, tightening her embrace around Aegon. "I will not lose another one of my children, Jace. I will not. "

What value does blood have where power resides? 

Sometimes, he tries to imagine himself in his mother's and uncle Aegon's place. In this narrative, Lucerys is his rival, and they compete for a birthright that, in the end, will lead one of them to the Stranger's embrace. He thinks he wouldn't endure such betrayal from his own brother. 

It frightens him that this is the first time he hears his mother refer to Aegon that way: brother, even if not entirely.

"And where is he now? Half-buried in steel while the Kinslayer rules in his name," he argues, sitting beside his mother on the floor. The prince hadn't noticed her eyes filling with tears as she looked at the little boy. "Wait for Daemon and follow the plan. When Baela returns, we can rescue Viserys with the fleet, and you can take King's Landing. Addam has already set out to-"

Rhaenyra shakes her head repeatedly. "You're not going anywhere, Jacaerys. That's my final word."

"Mother. Please," he implores, now also on the verge of tears that he tried to hold back since he learned about the little dragon that sank on the shore. "He is my brother. Don't let me be powerless again. Not again . You -you need to trust me."

For a fortnight, Jace dreamed of returning from the North earlier and killing Aemond Targaryen with a sword buried in his skull. In happier dreams, he fed him to Vermax. Every time, Lucerys lived.

"I can't lose you. You won't go," Rhaenyra says, and Aegon shifts uncomfortably in her lap.

"Mother-"

" Jacaerys," she whispers, cutting off any argument the prince might have. "I understand my duty as a ruler. Understand yours as my heir."

Aegon pulls away from his mother for a moment, rubbing his eyes hard with his small hands. Jace holds his wrists before he hurts himself, but his brother withdraws from his touch as if it were fire. When the prince looks at him with red-rimmed purple eyes, Jace's heart breaks a little more.

"Jace," he says, trembling while their mother gently strokes his back. "Don't be mad at me-"

His voice is so sad and broken that Jace feels like crying.

"No, little lad. I'm not mad at you," he says, almost succumbing to tears himself. "I'm very happy you came back to us."

"Vis… I couldn't," he starts, but then he breaks down in sobs again. Aegon had just turned six name days, too young to feel such pain. "I'm sorry, Jace-"

"It's okay. We'll bring him back," Rhaenyra assures, rocking the boy in her lap again. "We will."

We live in a land of men without honor, you and I. Oathbreakers and bloodthirsty murderers. If they defy my own mother, I wonder what they'll do when it's my voice that commands their obedience.

I hate to admit it, but I'm scared of what’s to come.

It's nearly morning when Moondancer descends upon Dragonstone with a disturbed Baela, calling for a Council meeting. Jace leaves Aegon's bedchamber, the boy asleep from exhaustion, to take his place before the Painted Table, his eyes still red from fatigue.

"It's frightening," is the first thing Baela reports. "Approximately a hundred ships are coming from the south of the Narrow Sea. The Gay Abandon is being besieged by a dozen ships with the banner of the Three Daughters, as far as I could see, which wasn't much." She looks worriedly at Corlys. "I didn't see any Velaryon or Black flags. I believe the escort has sunk."

Lord Corlys collapses into his chair, and Jace feels fear creeping up his spine. A hundred ships were enough to break the blockade of Blackwater Bay if they passed through the Gullet. And a covert attack to rescue Viserys wouldn't be possible if the Gay Abandon was so heavily guarded.

"Can you take the rest of the fleet to reinforce the blockade?" It's the queen who asks, hiding her own despair in her voice. She might fool the lords, but Jace knows her too well. "We will have the advantage with the dragons attacking from the north."

"The dragons are needed to take King's Landing, Your Grace," says Ser Alfred Broome. "With the city's patrols and Aemond One-Eye's dragon lurking, we'll need more strength."

"I thought One-Eye had already marched and departed for the Riverlands," says Lord Celtigar.

"The information is conflicting. We will only know when the King Consort arrives," Ser Alfred responds.

"How in the seven hells would the oldest dragon flying over the Riverlands be conflicting? Anyone with eyes would be able to see !" Celtigar inquires, his cheeks turning red. Jace exchanges a brief look with Baela, thinking about a topic they had discussed before.

The information from the capital had long ceased to be reliable. And Daemon's spies were no longer the advantage they thought they were. There was much inquisition about what was really happening on land, but very few answers.

And with Vhagar being a constant threat, even if the Kinslayer was half a day from the city, flying over King's Landing remained a suicide mission. They couldn't count on Helaena's absence; she still had her own dragon, and Rhaenyra also did not wish to cause her sister more pain — in battle this time.

“The fleet will close the Gullet and secure the Blackwater. But we'll need dragons to corner them and prevent the Triarchy from escaping back to the Stepstones,” Corlys assures, concluding the set of discussions that had formed. He spins his fingers over the miniature of a ship just above Driftmark. “We can hold them at sea until Daemon arrives to take the city.”

“The city can wait until we burn the fleet,” Ser Alfred retorts, extremely petulant.

“ We, Ser? Will you ride a dragon? Captain a ship? Or lead men-at-arms? At sea, I imagine the only solution will be to make them ride on seahorses!” Baela inquires, causing the man to shrink. Jace tries to appease her with a glance, which she ignores. She held strong, dangerous opinions about Ser Alfred. Not that Jace felt much differently; the man always seemed to offer impractical solutions.

“A hundred ships can be burned by dragons before sunset,” the queen mutters under her breath. “The goal is to rescue my son.”

“Let's send the dragonseeds. The queen and Baela can accompany Daemon to King's Landing. When will he join us?” Jace asks.

“The King Consort gave until the end of the day before tomorrow to arrive, my prince,” Maester Gerardys says.

“Good. We proceed with the plan to take the city. Syrax and Moondancer can stay behind to guard the island, and we take Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer, and Seasmoke to burn the fleet,” Jace concludes, pushing the small pieces representing each dragon to the edge of the map, just above Blackwater Bay. Alyn Velaryon looks at him over Corlys’s shoulder, and Jace presumes he will speak on behalf of his brother. He does not.

Rhaenyra looks at her son with narrowed eyes. “Someone must search for Viserys before the entire fleet is set ablaze. Break through their ranks to allow the Velaryon ships to reach the Gay Abandon. ”

Jace swallows dryly. “I will go.”

The Queen immediately tries to stop him, but he continues: "Vermax is the smallest of all these dragons. It will be easier for me to get closer-"

“Have you lost your senses, Jacaerys? Easier for you to die, giving the Hightowers exactly what they want,” she says, anguish in her voice. “Undermine my strength and kill another prince of the realm. Another son of mine.”

“I'd rather die than know I did nothing to prevent the loss of another member of my family!” Jace blurts out, causing palpable discomfort among all council members. Baela shifts uncomfortably, while Corlys leans back in his chair, exhaling heavily. Rhaenyra, however, looks at her son with a clenched jaw and trembling lips. Jace sees her eyes well up with tears and immediately regrets it. “Mother—”

“Ser Lorent,” she says, and in the same second, she puts back on her mask of indifference. The Lord Commander steps forward, looking as uncomfortable as the others.

“Yes, my queen?”

“Escort the prince to his chambers. Keep a guard at his door and do not let him leave until further notice.”

“You can't be serious,” Jace says, but it's little more than a murmur. The words died in his throat. You know this is the best course. You know I'm right. We can't rule with fear . But he holds them back; he’s already been insubordinate enough to his mother in front of her supporters.

“Until further notice, Ser Lorent,” she says, and when the Lord Commander moves to touch him, Jace pulls away.

“I trust you, my queen,” he says, for only those closest to hear. “I wish you would do the same.”

Do not fear a future that has yet to come. Justice will prevail.

Jace, since his return from the North, has been secretly cultivating his own alliances. He hoped they would bear fruit now. After all, he had spent many years in Dragonstone and was the prince of the island; he had his own trusted men.

Confined to his bedchamber, waiting for when Ser Lorent would inevitably be replaced by one of the castle guardsmen, he sorted through his pile of correspondence while watching the sunrise.

The first letter was from Lady Sabitha Frey, who had arrived by raven a day after Daemon’s raven, indicating his return. In the short missive, the Lady of the Crossing dated the incidents in the Riverlands and what she knew was happening in the westerlands, with Lannister troops moving eastward. She, like Daemon himself described in his missive, believed that Jason Lannister's plan was to join forces with Ser Criston Cole in Harrenhal and take the Riverlands, hoping to ambush the rivermen's army and devastate Rhaenyra's troops. It would be the least complex strategy, but Daemon was certain the Greens would follow it, and apparently Lady Frey did too.

The second letter was from Lord Tarly, describing his advances in the Reach. The situation there was more difficult: the letters dwindled more and more each day, and it was known throughout the realm that the Usurper’s brother, Daeron, remained by Ormund Hightower's side with Tessarion at his command. The threat of the dragon and the number of houses in the Reach loyal to Oldtown surpassed those loyal to the queen, resulting in too many battles being lost. House Tyrell itself remained silent, refusing to raise either the black or green banner while its vassals clashed.

The third letter was from Lady Jeyne, and the fourth was from Joffrey. They contained coded phrases about the situation of the Arryn men, who would join the queen's ranks as soon as the banners could gather in Gulltown, and about how Joffrey himself kept his dragon on watch high above the Eyrie to spot any enemy approach. Jace laughed at his little brother's attitude. Tyraxes was hardly big enough to be ridden, but Joffrey was as proud of his dragon as if it were Balerion reborn.

The fifth was from Lord Stark. It said simply: Soon the wolves will howl for the viper.

The letter bore the seal of the Wolf of the North and must have been written five or six days ago. He compared it with a small missive that had arrived the previous week, which good Maester Gerardys had kept secret for the prince. That letter bore the seals of a fox and a rabbit.

In that one, many other words came forth. There were no secret messages about the war. It said:

The fate of a ruler is to reap the fruits that were planted when they were still an heir, a soldier, or a conqueror. Why would men be loyal to anyone who does not know their omens? Who does not share their victories and defeats? Who does not keep their oaths and maintain their vows? Who does not look them in the eye at the moment of their death? Jace, my Jace. Do not fear your fate. Do not fear a future that has yet to come. Justice will prevail.

The prince runs his fingers over his name written in Cregan's letters. He fears the ink will melt onto his touch, just as the man's voice fades from his ears with time.

He safely stores the letter along with the other secret messages between the pages of a large book titled The Merry Tale of the Free Cities . The rest of the letters, official war messages for the prince, remain on his desk.

Soon the wolves will howl for the viper.

Jacaerys throws them all into the fire, watching as they burn.

Daylight was high by the time the door to his chamber creaked open. Jace rose swiftly, already clad in boiled leather, as Ser Bennard appeared.

"We have little time, my prince," the knight murmured, gesturing for Jace to follow him and locking the door behind them.

Jace smiled. "Thank you, my friend. I know it's not in your nature to act against the queen."

The man paled further, glancing anxiously at Jace as they descended the tower through a servants' passage.

"The queen has armed herself for departure. She's right behind the Velaryon fleet with her dragon."

Jace felt his breath catch, stunned for a moment. " How could she do such a thing?"

"I've heard it was the Council's encouragement, my prince. Lady Baela might know more," he stammered.

They moved in silence, avoiding a guard or two, delving deeper into the castle's shadows until they reached the small hall where Baela awaited them. She cast a steely gaze over Jace before signaling for him to follow. Ser Bennard remained behind, not without a grateful glance from the prince.

"How long has it been since she left?" Jace asked.

"Not long before the hour of the wolf. They won't be far; the plan is to ambush the Triarchy when Grandsire’s men have their attention near High Tide." She paused, squinting as if reconsidering. "Gods, this had better work. If only Moondancer were larger…"

"Have a little faith in me," Jace jested, but Baela did not laugh. "And convince your father to wait for our return before taking King's Landing."

She gave a humorless chuckle. "As if he would listen. He has the power to seize the city alone, just to prove himself. To whom, I don't know."

"Sounds like someone I know," the prince remarked, causing her to lower her head. Baela herself had not been the most resolute in following the Council's orders.

"I'll do my best to keep him here," she said as they reached the stables. Somehow, there were no guards or dragonkeepers; Vermax lay among the rocks with a resting saddle on his back. At Jace's whistle, the dragon raised his head.

"But I can't promise you won't lose some parts for your disobedience," she added.

Vermax spread his wings and glided to Jace, and Baela stepped back four paces. The dragon huffed warm smoke into Jace's hand as he lovingly stroked his nose a moment before mounting.

"Our disobedience," he corrected, but Baela immediately shook her head.

"Mine? I was never here," she quipped wryly. Jace snorted as he adjusted himself; the saddle was poor, with no reins, so he gripped the dragon's scales until he felt secure enough to fly. Vermax roared to the mountaintop, waiting for the command.

"Stay until Daemon arrives," Jace ordered, gripping the dragon's sides, "and good luck."

"Not for me." She unsheathed her own whip and handed it to Jace. "Try not to die today."

Jacaerys took the whip, nodding in thanks before tucking it into his belt beside the wolf dagger and his sword.

He doesn’t see his betrothed for a while.

Jace arrives too late. 

It's the end of the morrow when he reaches the core of the naval battle that pervades the Gullet from Sharp Point to Driftmark. He sees the first sign of smoke as soon as he leaves Dragonstone: fire cutting through the clouds in the sky and black smoke swallowing up the sunlight. The closer he gets, the worse the calamity gets. 

Jace had never seen war raw. He had read countless accounts; he could dictate in his head all the victories from the Conquerors to the Andal wars; he had learned about the bloody history of the Valyrians and Rhoynar, about the Ghiscari and the Age of Heroes. He was, after all, the descendant of an empire that earned its name through military subjugation. He knew the history of the war as well as his name. 

Seeing it with his own eyes, however, makes his stomach churn more than he'd like to admit. And he suddenly wonders if learning from dusty books and maesters is worth anything.

The Gullet seems like a nightmare. He remembers his father teaching him about those waters so many years ago that his face had already turned to smoke. Try not to swim if you can't see the bottom, little fish. 

The Triarchy's ships are everywhere: Tyrosh galleys loaded with hundreds of archers flying a rain of arrows at the dragons that attack with columns of fire; men feeding fire bolts and iron hooks to destroy the hull of the Velaryon ships; while others aim at scorpions to try to defend themselves from the dragons that dive and set fire to the Three Daughters' flag. 

Vermax hesitates before advancing, and Jace fears as he tightens the reins.

As they approach above the Velaryon lines, the slaughter is even worse. Ships lost and burned on both sides of the battle, reduced to little more than a pile of rubble and charred bodies floating in the dark water; men-at-arms and sailors running in flames, jumping over railings to find some peace in death. The dragon fire still burns for a while underwater, and it gives them no mercy. 

It's a cacophony of screams and snaps; wood falling from masts hitting whole lines of archers, turning them into fish food; flags burning and choking rowers with dark smoke; death screams from the dying and squeals from wounded dragons. 

An arrow flies past Jace's ear as Vermax dives towards the attack, with twenty or thirty Triarchy ships burning just below. "Dracarys, Vermaks!" He shouts, and the dragon unleashes the inferno that causes explosions and raises black smoke that would choke any man. Jace doesn't close his eyes, and tears flow. 

The smell is, to say the least, unbearable. He knows the smell of burnt cattle well; the Dragonpit often had this sickening odor because of the dragons. It's the burning flesh of men that makes him want to vomit, more than the rocking of ships in a storm.

Burnt skin, cotton, bronze, and wood rise up and fill the air until it chokes his lungs. He coughs, the soot from his skin dripping where the tears come down. "Sōvegon, eglikta!" Jace says as the dragon dives towards the ships again before soar to the clouds. Another arrow whizzes past the side of his head, and Jace can feel the wind on his cheek making him shiver.

Vermax dives forward to join the other dragons. The prince sees Seasmoke pouring hell into the east; Silverwing and Vermithor destroying the rearguard; and Sheepstealer pouring a column of fire on a scorpion right in front of him. He doesn't see Syrax or his mother, and he thanks the gods for that.

A warhorn blows somewhere. No, a seashell . Jace and the dragon turn their heads at the same time, as the Velaryon ships from the east lose yet another galley. Dozens of Driftmark men get lost in a mess of blood, flesh, and entrails. Those who survive jump into the sea, to die as they wish.

Not cruelty, Jace thinks, but mercy.

It is Seasmoke who descends to subdue them, well mounted by Addam. From that distance, Jace sees no more than a small dot on the saddle that should be the dragon rider as the beast spits fire, orange and white, and fills the air again with steam and salt. 

On the other side of where Addam attacks, a scorpion shoots a huge arrow through the dragon's wing. He screams, a sound of horror that makes Vermax squirm.

Jace clings to the dragon's scales as Vermax swoops down to unleash a torrent of fire on the attacking ship, hissing and screaming like a beast until the metal turns to seawater. Flaming soldiers jump into the water; others meet their end right there. The arrows slam uselessly into the dragon's hide, some even cutting very close to the prince’s head, but this only serves to make Vermax a little more upset, until there are no more archers left in that line of defense. He scrambles up, startled by the sound of more explosions, turning his neck to go back. 

The prince only hopes that his incursion has given Seasmoke and Addam time to escape without further damage.

"Sōvegon naejot!" Jace shouts, and the dragon flaps its wings upward, gliding almost above the clouds of smoke. It's from there that Jace can see the central lines, where Tyrosh's warships are still almost intact, with twenty or thirty vessels in defense formation. " Rȳbās, Vermaks, " he says, gently stroking the dragon's back "rȳbagon nyke, zaldrītsos…" 

Stay with me, stay with me, my garden dragon, Jace begs in thought. The prince's hands bleed where he holds on to the emerald scales, and blood drips into the sea when he lets go. Jace holds on tight with his thighs before uncoiling the whip from his waist. 

In the middle, the battle is more arduous, where ship faces ship and the scorpions follow well-armed. Scare a young dragon. It frightens a young prince. 

"ILAGON," he orders, cracking Baela’s whip across the animal's loins. As the dragon dives, the prince lowers himself until his forehead rests against its back. It burns for a moment, where flesh becomes fire and Jace becomes his dragon. Then it stops. "SIR!"

He doesn't have to command this time; Vermax pours fire into a line of ships, frightening the soldiers and setting their rudder on fire. He burns the mast and scorpion of a large galley, boiling its archers inside their armor and burning their captains. It's horrible. And mesmerizing. 

They've taken my brother, he thinks. They've stolen Luke, and now Viserys. 

Jace wonders if he would die like Luke, falling from his dragon to be swallowed by the sea. The arrows fly closer; Vermax is startled when one flies close to his eye; and Jace lowers the whip in the air so that the dragon doesn't flinch. 

That's when he finally sees the Gay Abandon . Well garrisoned, in the center of the Triarchy's ranks, with half a hull burning and the flag blazing. No, Jace thinks. Not Viserys. Not him too.  

Vermax twitches restlessly and flies up before Jace crack the whip again. "DOHAERÃS!" He shouts until the dragon dives again, begrudgingly, this time to the ship that was supposed to escort his brothers to Pentos. 

Vermax descends, perhaps a little too far. The bow is destroyed, and Jace sees the white hull crumbling and filling with water. The fire burned that ship a long time ago, he realizes. And still heats and cracks the oak wood. 

There are no crew members. Not a soul. 

Suddenly, Vermax pushes him forward, and Jace almost falls. The dragon squeals with horror, like a prey about to be slaughtered.

It takes him too long to realize his mistake: the dragon had been hit in the belly with a hook. Flying too low . It hurts in the prince's guts when the weapon slips into Vermax’s stomach, and they both bends forward, screaming. 

"Vēzot! SŌVEGON!" He lunges at the dragon, and Vermax takes flight again, only to be hit by a scorpion arrow in his right wing. The scales help to hold it in place, but it bleeds black and steaming where they broke off. Jace feels a pain lacerate his right arm and let's go of the whip; a sickening arrow sinks close to his shoulder and digs its metal into his muscles. "SIR!"

The second arrow grazes him in his thigh. Vermax rises, and the prince bends over as the pain consumes him from the inside. He thinks he's screaming. A third arrow hits his back as Vermax turns around to go back to where Dragonstone should be. Jace feels despair as his little dragon flies back, anguishing to get home while squealing from the excruciating pain.

I killed him, Jace realizes with horror . I killed us both.

He thinks of Aegon's little Stormcloud. Of Arrax, Meleys, Meraxes, and Quicksilver. All falling from the sky, like birds felled in a tree. 

Jace shoots an arrow at a bird during a hunt in the North, and his dragon falls when another hook grabs its tail. 

Perhaps this is the justice of the gods: one life for another. Jace thinks he would rather die there than return home without his beloved dragon.

The saddle isn't strong enough; when Vermax turns to defend himself against a scorpion's flaming arrow, the prince doesn't have the strength to hold on. 

He falls and awaits death. 

"Isn't it lovely?"

Jace opens his eyes, only to close them again. The sun burns and makes salty tears run down his cheeks in a torrent. He feels his lungs burn, and his shoulders feel like they've been ripped off and repositioned again, like a stuffed doll rebuilt by a lousy seamstress. He stretches out his legs, finding sand under his skin—soft, white sand, from which he rises. His hands are full of sand, too, and he can almost taste it in the back of his throat. 

"Jace?" calls the voice that woke him up. It's Lucerys, as he can see, sitting next to him. He's smaller than he once was—seven or eight. Jace also has shorter arms and legs than usual, a discomfort with his own skin that only dreams bring him. "Look! I found it when the tide went out. Isn't it lovely?"

He tries to open his eyes again; he looks at his brother's little hands, never at his face. He knows what he'll find if he looks at his brother's face: empty eyes and sickly gray skin from where he languished at the bottom of the Bay. He's had that dream too many times not to know. Luke always smelled of death.

In the boy's hands, he finds a pile of green and golden scales, twisted and curled at an unnatural angle. At first, Jacaerys thinks it's a dragon—no more than a hatchling. Then he sees that the animal doesn't have the slightest of wings: a snake, fangs out, and all from where it stares into the void in Luke's hands, gray eyes staring at the boy. 

"Give it back to the sea, Luke." He says, his voice so childish it hurts. 

"It's mine now." His brother replies, clutching the animal to his chest. His coat is blue and embroidered with seahorses. " Ñuhon mērī, lēkia. "

Jace watches as the snake trembles from where Luke holds it. Its eyes are still sickeningly dead as it climbs onto the boy's neck and latches its fangs there, oozing black venom into his veins. The surrounding skin twitches, and Luke screams. Jace barely moves. 

When he looks into his brother's eyes at that time, he doesn't see the putrid face of a decomposing body. This time, his eyes are as clear as day and his cheeks are pink as he chokes on his own blood.

Jace thinks he's drowning. He's never been much of a swimmer. 

"Easy, easy, boy." A firm voice says, holding him by the shoulders. Jace screams, and his right shoulder burns as if it's being ripped off. "Are you awake this time? Or are you dreaming?" 

He tries to speak, but all he can do is cough. The man sees his desperation and hands him a mug full of wine. Jace drinks like a desperate man, not caring about the sour taste of vinegar.

The smell is horrible and makes his stomach turn, but it's better than nothing. His arm hurts like hell, the dry skin stretching over a wound.

He is overcome by a fit of coughing, and the man assists him in sitting up. Jace coughs so intensely that he fears his throat might split open, but the poor-quality wine soothes him, and he drinks until his mug is empty.

"Thank you." 

"Don't thank me yet." The man says, and it's only then that Jace squints to see him. He's almost all white in his hair, his beard is still gray, and his face is full of wrinkles. His eyes are a deep green, and his hands are callused and tanned. He is, however, very thin and sickly-looking. "You're Northerner."

If Jace could cough more without leaving his throat in living flesh, he would. The man stares at him with accusation in his eyes. "What?"

"Are you from the North?" The man asks slowly. Only then does Jace realize that he is completely naked, with dirty bandages wrapped around his leg, arms, shoulder, and chest. He suddenly feels cold, but he doesn't shrink away. "Answer, boy."

"I'm not Northern. I was born in Gulltown."

The man sneered with a gesture. "You liar. You have a wolf knife. Stink of sinful blood," He says it accusingly. Jace brings his hand up to his hip before remembering his nakedness. Across the room, he sees what should once have been his rumpled clothes—Cregan's dagger just above it. "Stop lying, or I'll finish cutting you up, boy."

Jace recoils as the man points his own knife at him. It's a crude thing with an unsharpened edge, rusted around the edges. It looks extremely menacing. The man snarls at him. 

"My father was from the North. From Winter's Town. My mother lives on the docks, and so do I." He says it calmly. The man thinks for a long time before speaking. 

"What is your name?"

"Joffrey… Stone." 

The man wrinkles his nose. " Bastard," he says. "And your bitch o'a mother?"

"Sharra Stone." Jace says and sees the man's hand shaking. "Please. I don't know how I got here."

"You ran aground on the shore, like a rotten fish. Slept for the whole moon in silence. Then for another moon, screaming every night," he gestures with the knife, " Luke, Luke . Then he called for his mother. Fucking cunt," he looks, disgusted, "and for the last fortnight it's been Cregan. Who's that, eh?"

Jace tries to reduce his embarrassment by puffing out his chest, but it hurts to move. He can't stop his cheeks from blushing. 

"Luke is my brother. He's dead." Jace says, "Cregan was a friend."

"Also dead?"

He doesn't hesitate. “Aye. Our ship was attacked… Can you tell me where am I?”

The man stares at him with narrowed eyes before deciding to say, "Across the strait."

"What strait?"

"Of Tarth."

Jace freezes for a second. How the hell had he ended up in Storm's domain, of all places? And for so long? 

The old man seemed to notice his shock.

"You weren't coming here, were you, lad?"

"Definitely not." He says, "I need to get back to… the Vale. Eh. Gulltown."

"There's a war out there. A little thing like you will last half a day."

Jace tries not to be offended. His stomach aches with hunger.

"King's Landing, then. I know people there." He wasn't so sure, but he didn't want to seem more suspicious.

The man wrinkles his nose. "King's Landing has been taken over by the new queen. You don't want to go there."

Jace's heart raced. So my mother survived. Viserys…

"Yes, I do." He says it too quickly. "I'll leave now, good sire. What do they call you?? I don't want to be a burden anymore." He says, forgetting his modesty and jumping out of the straw bed. The place is a very old barn; it smells of wool and horse shit. 

"Stop right there, bastard !" The man says, and for the first time in his life, Jace isn't filled with fury when he hears that word directed at him. "I'm not killing you because I broke bread with’ while you were sleeping! Don't want traitors to the King under my roof."

Jace almost laughs. His leg hurts like hells, and he walks almost as lame as an old man until he gets used to the pain.. Next to his burnt robes is a set of clothes—dark and worn-out, but they look clean. He's grateful that his Targaryen clothes are destroyed; it would be hard to explain that.

"Can I use these?" he asks, and he doesn't expect an answer. 

The man must have been tired of looking at his ass by now, and he tucks both feet into his pants before listening to him again.

"If you find any strangers and say I gave you shelter, I'll kill you myself." He says, his voice rasping in his throat. Jace tucks his dagger into his pants and thanks the gods that the man didn't take it for himself. "I'm not afraid of the old gods!"

Oh. So that's what it was about.

"Yes, yes. They're pretty scary, though." Jace comments, slipping into that old tunic. The man still looks at him with suspicious eyes, but this time the knife is pointed downward. 

"I'm not kidding, boy. I'm going to gut you from your mouth to your cock, and then I'm going to feed you to the pigs."

"Of course you will." Jace replies, straightening his clothes as best he can. "What's your name, my good host?"

He squints at Jace. "None of your business. Get away from my farm before I regret it, you bastard."

"I will. How do I get to Stonedance?" Jace asks, and the man frowns even more. 

"'Up north'—what, by the seven hells, do you intend?" He says, confused. Jace's stomach still aches with hunger. His eyes weaken. 

"Many things, good sire." The prince says, agitated, turning his back on the farmer. He walks out of the barn in worn boots until he sees a small stable where the trees begin, white roots intertwining on the ground between the oaks under a carpet of bright orange and red leaves.

The farm is small, and the land doesn't look promising; it's muddy from the rain. Jace goes to the horses before the man follows him and chooses a good-looking gray mare. If he sticks two apples in his pockets, no one can blame him. 

"Stop! Thief!" Shouts the man as Jace mounts, holding a third apple between his teeth. Gods, he could eat a whole boar. "Thief! THIEF! My sons will fucking KILL you! Bastard son of a bitch!"

The poor man is lame and doesn't make much progress as he trots out of the stall, biting and swallowing the apple. It looks like the best of banquets, and he wants to cry. 

"Forgive me! Truly! I'll send the mare back. I owe you my life; I won't forget it!" Jace says so solemnly, his throat still swollen with pain, and receives a dozen curses as he sets off on a gallop towards the north. 

Slowly, his memory begins to return. He remembers a beach, the sand filling his lungs where water used to be, and the sudden cold when his wounded dragon took flight and fell into the sea. He recalls being found by firm hands and frightened cries, being loaded onto the back of a horse, and being forced to swallow potato stew before vomiting it all up again. More than anything, he dreams.

His mind conjures images of Viserys sinking into the sea, his mother dying from a scorpion's arrow, and Lucerys drowning in Shipbreaker Bay. Is his dreams, Vermax is dead, as are his brothers and his mother. Those are his most confusing nights.

He also dreams of the North: of Sara Snow and Ser Raymor Dustin talking to him at a feast that never ends while the snow drowns them behind the walls of Winterfell. He dreams of a dark lake and a heart tree, with Cregan kissing him on the lips, on the cheeks, and between the collarbones. In the dream, Cregan tasted like spring.

It's not hard to decide that he prefers dreams of passion.

Lord Garmon Massey faints when he sees the prince at Stonedance. Jace remembers the man from his time in Dragonstone; his house was faithful and more trustworthy than the Bar Emmons of Sharp Point. From Stonedance, he sends a raven to Lady Elinda Massey, the lord's sister. The next day, a dragon lands on the beach by Massey's Hook.

That dragon is Baela's Moondancer. Jace waits for her to dismount on the sand, standing with a garrison of soldiers behind him. His body still hurts, and his arm is tied in a sling, but he has clean clothes and no longer smells like a horse. The girl rushes up to him with a closed face, tears in her eyes, and hands clenched into fists. When Jace tries to speak, she punches him in his still-wounded arm. It hurts so much that he suppresses a cry, the soldiers take a nervous step forward.

"Seven hells, Baela!" Jace complains before being pulled into a tight hug. He feels hot tears soak his shoulder, but when the girl pulls away, she quickly wipes her eyes.

"You stupid prick. Don't you ever do that again; do you understand me? Never again. Jace… Oh, gods," she says before bursting into tears again. Baela's hair is much shorter now, almost like his. She has deep circles under her eyes and trembling fingertips.

"I'm here now," Jace says quietly. "I didn't desire death."

She stares at him with distant eyes. "You've missed too much. We need to talk."

When Jace returns to the castle, Lord Garmon's cheeks flush, and he stammers as Baela thanks him for looking after the prince. They quickly make their way upstairs to the chambers set aside for Jace the day before. He locks the door while she sits at the table near the fireplace, resting her head in her hands.

"Oh, Jace. The seven hells are at our door."

She tells him about the seizure of Harrenhal by Aemond One-Eye and Ser Criston Cole, who soon turned against each other. Now, the Kingmaker's army is marching south from the Riverlands. Furthermore, she describes the desperate pleas from the lords of the Reach, begging for assistance while Daeron Targaryen mercilessly burns troops and garrisons with his dragon. The chaos intensifies as the army of the West advances on the river lords. 

Baela mentions Sabitha Frey's letters, sent before she learned of the prince's supposed death, detailing the devastation in her lands and pleading for a dragonknight to defend the Riverlands. Since Lady Frey stopped responding, she has had no news since. "Your northerners made a difference, at least," she points out, and Jace bites his tongue to keep from saying anything.

Finally, she relates to him about the assault on King's Landing, which took place a few days after his presumed death. He hears from Baela what he had already heard from Lord Garmon: that his mother had sunk into despair after Jace's supposed execution . She couldn't bear to lose another son.

Jace thinks of a queen further lost in grief over the two sons missing during the Battle of the Gullet, returning to Dragonstone without so much as a body to bury. For a while, she must have believed she had only Joffrey and Aegon left. "My mother. She's…"

"She's dying, Jace," Baela replies, her voice trembling. Jace swallows his tears. “And Syrax too. Grief has made her hard to handle. She sat on the Iron Throne for a week before… well. The maesters believe that something is devouring her within, something that is so ancient and cruel that they are unsure of its nature-”

The silence that follows burns Jace's ears. 

He thinks of poor little Aegon, losing his mother and brothers on the same day. Living in a house of ghosts. 

"Poison?" he asks, his voice devoid of hope.

"If poison, which one? And worse, by whom?" she replies. "None that the Citadel knows of. My father… Well, let's just say he showed the same mercy as the Usurper did to ratcatchers to the food tasters. Everyone in the Red Keep is too afraid to whisper, fearing they might be hanged if he's in a bad mood. It's even worse since many of the Green supporters are still missing. Larys Strong is the worst of them. And that woman, Mysaria… too many possible culprits, too few answers."

"Cursed by the gods," he recalls the court whispering when King Viserys' health took a turn for the worse. He wonders if anyone would say that to his mother now.

"Lord Massey told me she didn't fly off to war," Jace sighs. The air in the bedchamber is stale; he doesn't open the windows. He doesn't want to see the sea. "And that she barely visited the Council, even before this… disease snatched her away."

Baela takes a deep breath. "I can't tell you much about the Gullet because I wasn't there. Grandsire said she was too upset to leave the rearguard but wanted to save Viserys herself. And then you disappeared, and… well, I can only imagine what a mother would do after losing two children."

Jace leans back in his chair, his lips trembling. "So I didn't save my brother and condemned my mother to a pain we all knew she couldn't bear."

“Jace,”

“Luke and Visenya had already been too much for her to bear. It's my fault-”

"No. No!" she says, grabbing his forearm. Her fingers are cold, even through the fabric. "You destroyed the enemy front lines. Burned scorpions where no other dragon could reach. Addam said he'd be dead if it wasn't for you. Ulf, the idiot, definitely would, so as Grandfather. Don't blame yourself for wanting to save Viserys, Jace, and don't blame your mother for being stricken with this… pain . She has experienced too much suffering.”

"She's my queen, and I disobeyed—"

"And Viserys is — was — our brother. Gods! Do you think I didn't want to do the same for him? That I wouldn't do the same for Rhaena, Aegon? Or for you, or even Joffrey? If Moondancer wasn't so small, I would have left you locked up in your bedchamber and burned the Triarchy fleet myself." Baela fidgets uncomfortably. "Did Garmon told you about the Gay Abandon ?"

He nods.

"Well, the fleet has reached it. There was no sign of Viserys," Baela says, though Jace already knows. "My father believes it was a trap. I flew from the Gullet to the middle of the Narrow Sea—nothing. Your mother considers him dead."

She doesn't add "as well as you."

"There was a funeral, I imagine," Jace says, forcing himself to smile without any humor, but Baela doesn't follow him.

"We've sent ravens to all the kingdoms announcing your death," Baela says regretfully.

"Oh. I imagine that's not a good position for the Council to be in," Jace points out.

"The Council… Gods be good; you'll see what hell it has become. My father sits on the Iron Throne as Protector of the Realm and Grandfather as Hand. A little longer, and they'll crown themselves kings."

The prince swallows. "Daemon has conquered the city; let him have his glory while he can. I need to see my mother first—"He takes a deep breath, tears stinging his eyes"—before she leaves as well."

The ship docked in King's Landing two days later. Baela had flown ahead, while Jace waited for the Velaryon fleet to escort him. 

When he arrives at the Red Keep, it is not his betrothed who greets him, but Daemon, surrounded by the men of the Queensguard and his own garrison of Golden Cloaks. Daemon looks like a shadow of his former self: thin and pale, with bags under his eyes and cracked lips tinged with wine, his longer hair braided behind his head. Jace wonders if he looks the same.

"You're late," Daemon says.

"I ran away from death as fast as I could," Jace replies solemnly. His uncle laughs, looking away for a moment. The prince can't tell if there's irony; he's never understood Daemon and won't try to start now.

"There's a war to fight for your queen out there, and we need dragons. Dying has become easier." 

Whether it sounds like a threat or a promise, Jace can't tell. He remembers that Daemon himself had lost his youngest son; as much as he had strong opinions about the man, he knew he grieved differently.

Now, dragons… Baela had told him that Vermax appeared on Dragonstone three days after the battle, licking his wounds on the island while a tomb was being opened for the prince. Having Vermax alive gave him a glimmer of hope; perhaps not all was lost at the Gullet. 

The mercy of the gods, however, still frightened Jace. They had taken away his two brothers and his mother: leaving him with his dragon seemed like a cruel joke.

Before he could answer his uncle, the hall flooded with a dozen more men, all from House Velaryon. Lord Corlys led the way, his eyes wide as if he'd seen a ghost. Maybe he had, Jace thought, as the man embraced him.

"Stupid boy," Corlys said before releasing him, and Daemon laughed out loud. Grandpa held him by the shoulders, then by the cheeks. His eyes were almost tender. "Trying to play the hero! We buried you moons ago."

"Stupidity is apparently running in the family blood," said the King Consort, and Jace snorted in response. He had no interest in banter. He waited until Corlys released him, patting him on the cheek before speaking again.

"I want to see my—the queen. I need to speak to her." The prince cut off the commotion, and suddenly silence fell. Corlys and Daemon exchanged a look of a thousand meanings, none of which Jace liked. "I think she needs to see me as well."

Daemon took a deep breath, slumping his shoulders heavily as he looked into everyone's eyes but Jace's. He nodded, and the prince followed him up the tower.

She looks as dead as the Luke of his dreams, with purplish bags under deep-set eyes, sunken cheeks, and bulging veins under her skin. Her hair, once silky silver-blonde, lies in a dry braid on the pillows, in the same bed where her father languished. Her lips are so cracked that they appear to be bleeding in the half-light. 

It's worse than he imagined when the news came to him. 

"Mother?" Jace calls out, approaching so slowly that the floorboards creak with each step. A hundred candles illuminate the chambers where the light doesn't enter. He leans against the wooden canopy of the bed, clenching his hand into a fist as he inhales the sickly air. Jace prays this is still a nightmare—that he's still in the farmer's straw bed, hallucinating about his half-dead brother.

The prince had spent so long asleep that he no longer recognized reality. But those features on her face—the slight movement of the blankets where she breathed, the wrinkles under her eyes that had become prominent after Luke's death—were not figments of his imagination. 

"Is it always like this?" he asks, leaning on the mattress to sit down. Jace doesn't come any closer; he doesn't dare.

"Almost ever since we arrived here, my prince," It was Lady Elinda who answered, and Jace discovered that she spent her days looking after the Broken Queen. "She sleeps long hours, has nightmares, and wakes up in despair and pain. Until the Maester comes and forces the milk of the poppy upon her."

Jace nods. His mother's left-hand peeks out of the blankets, and he touches her fingers gently. The skin is cold and dry; no ring is in sight. His mother loved rings. It makes his eyes sting.

He notices the queen's wrist bandaged up to the elbow. The flesh underneath looks almost completely black and purple where Jace traces it with his fingertips. "And the treatments?"

"I do what I can, my prince. Tonics and poultices, dreamwine and milk of the poppy," Grand Maester Gerardys answers. He sighs, stroking her hands, "but nothing seems to relieve the queen of her suffering. The Council has requested new maesters more versed in the art of healing, but no response has come from the Citadel."

"Of course not," Jace agrees, his voice dripping with venom. "But we should find someone else. A healer from Pentos, or Dorne. If it's poison, they'll know."

"It's already been done by command, my prince. Nothing seems to do any good," Gerardys says, barely finishing his sentence before Jace cuts him off.

"Do it again. Search from Braavos to the Jade Sea. Bring men from the end of the world if you have to." He concludes, tracing his finger lightly over the bandages. "When did she get hurt?"

He doesn't turn to look at Lady Elinda or the maester, but their silence lasts long enough for Jace to wonder if he's still in company.

"Five or six nights after we got here, The queen has cut herself on the Iron Throne with some frequency," says Gerardys pointedly. "When she was still sane."

Cursed by the gods. Viserys, Rhaenyra, Jacaerys.

"It's a good thing she doesn't have to sit in that cruel chair anymore, then."

The Small Council is, in a word, hell. 

Jace receives his chair a week after returning from the dead, as well as the chambers in Maegor's Holdfast that once belonged to his mother. He sees no one but the loyalists of Dragonstone, and he's grateful for that. Fear made him paranoid, and the suspicion that the queen had been poisoned ran through the corridors and among the servants in such a way that it was even credited as true. He had little faith in the guardsmen at the Keep, always accompanied by one of the Manderly men or the Queensguard. 

Corlys' joy at his grandson's return seemed to die when Jace forced himself to be more active in the government's decisions, going against the man's unilateral votes and unbalancing the table for his own side. Daemon, however, had already overcome his veiled discontent and spoke freely against Jace during meetings, usually accompanied by Lord Celtigar. The only ones who held the prince's opinion in good esteem were Lord Garmon Massey, recently appointed Master of Laws by the Prince of Dragonstone; Grand Maester Gerardys, who seemed to lean towards his side rather than his uncle's; and the Manderly brothers, who also followed his voice. 

For a moment, it seemed that Corlys and Daemon were rekindling an alliance forged long before the prince was even born. Jace wants to subjugate the Reach, while Daemon longs to return to the Riverlands to finish off Vhagar once and for all. Despite his eagerness to fight, Jace is discouraged by most of the Council members, especially Daemon. His uncle vehemently objects to the prince leaving his mother's side, a surprising shift in behavior that alarms Jace.

Corlys opposes both the King Consort's war plans and the Prince of Dragonstone's desire for battle. He insists that neither has the necessary funds to support an army marching against a victorious dragon…

The oppositions extend over an entire war moon, where dragons bog down the Pit and aren’t even used to reconquer the lost half of the Kingdoms. Meanwhile, the city is kept in order by Lord Celtigar, who is charged with refilling the coffers emptied by the Usurper and his Master of Coin, Tyland Lannister.

Jace himself had not even left the Red Keep yet, except for the one time when Vermax flew over the city in a rage, and the prince had to ride outside the gates to calm him down and take him to the Pit. That day, Jace hid his eyes in the scales of his oldest companion as he cried, relief and sadness seeping through his chest.

Alliances change when an answer arrives from the Iron Bank of Braavos, a secondary plan hatched by the prince in secret together with Lord Massey and Torrhen Manderly to secure the capital's coffers without needing the Lannisters or the Hightowers. The bank sends an emissary, and with the emissary comes the gold. A loan made for the sake of Jacaerys' own neck. "The Iron Bank will have its due," the emissary tells the prince when he meets him in the dark halls of the White Sword Tower, with the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Lorent, and Jace's supporters as witnesses.

After their deal is concluded and the prince returns to Maegor's Holdfast, he finds Corlys waiting for him, leaning on a cane. "Familiar situation, huh?" he says, tossing Jace a dark gray Braavosi coin. "Curious what you can find in such a large Keep. Poison masters from Dorne, sorcerers from Asshai—all seeking to cure the queen. But bankers from Braavos? A new kind of cure, I suppose."

The man raises an eyebrow at Jace, questioning him.

"The kingdom needs to be healed along with the queen," Jace replies simply. Exhausted, he doesn't have the patience to deal with Corlys right now. "Your treasures are gone with the Triarchy, and Lord Celtigar has already borrowed so much from his coffers that he's practically charging the city's sick to die as an alternative. We were at a dead end."

In the absence of an appointed regent, Daemon has been the one to grant the smallfolk's petitions, sitting on the Iron Throne with such sumptuousness that Jace wonders if the Small Council shouldn't clip his wings before they get too long. The lack of money in the kingdom not only affects matters of war but also causes the bodies of the hungry, the mad, and the common folk to mingle in the streets of the city. Corpses are carried off by starvation, disease, or terror. Soon the tax money wouldn’t even be able to equip the Crownlands army, let alone all of King’s Landing.

It takes a long time before Corlys speaks again, long enough for Jace to dunk his face in a bowl of cold water.

"Have you by any chance seen Young Aegon?" he asks, his voice dripping with cruel inquiry.

Jace swallows the shame that comes with the memory of his little brother. How he had failed him in so many ways.

"No. Lady Elinda said he keeps vigil for my mother," Jace replies, irritated by the subject.

"It is said that the young prince spends a lot of time with his father."

"Let him enjoy it while he has one. Not all of us are so fortunate."

Corlys takes a step back, shock cutting through his mask of neutrality for a moment before it returns to stoicism.

"I like you, Jacaerys. I liked Luke more, yes. But you’re not so bad," he says, his voice bordering on false calm as Jace loses his breath at the mention of Lucerys. "And so I will support you when you become king."

Jace takes a deep breath. He is tired of negotiating with Corlys. The man gave the queen the support of the fleet in exchange for Jace's help in legitimizing his bastards, but the prince was constantly losing disputes and quarrels in the Small Council over his grandfather's association with Daemon. He had learned to distrust the man's intentions a long time ago, and like it or not, he was still afraid to walk on ice.

"Don't go behind my back again in matters of the realm. Remember that I’m still the Hand of the Queen; I could help you more than you know." He finishes with a sad smile on his lips. "And be careful in your bargains, grandson."

After that night, the Small Council shifted to the side of the Prince of Dragonstone. The management of the city and the kingdom became more flexible thanks to the money from Braavos, and Lord Celtigar holed up in the libraries, looking for precedents from previous Masters of Coin on managing a kingdom at war. The old man got so lost in his search that his son, Ser Clement, replaced him during meetings.

The news from the Reach was poorly told and dubious; one report said that Aegon's young son, Maelor, was in the company of his uncle Daeron; another from the north claimed that the boy was torn apart by the smallfolk in a common tavern while fleeing south. Whatever the truth, none of it had reached King's Landing.

More reliable messengers arrived, telling them that Criston Cole had been killed not long before, his head traveling with Pete of Longleaf after Roderick Dustin's men hosted a corpse-fest in the God's Eye, turning the soldiers who followed the Kingmaker into bone dust.

Jace felt nothing for Cole's death; the gods knew that for much of his life he had wanted to put a sword through the man himself.

Corlys said that it was "an omen from the gods" that the war in the Riverlands had come to a possible end. Aemond Targaryen and Vhagar had disappeared after burning half a hundred farmhouses, a disappearance that frightened rather than encouraged Jacaerys. Aemond was still his weakest point, his greatest desire for revenge. He wanted to know where he was and where to look for him. He dreamed of shoving a blade down his uncle's throat and feeding him to Vermax, as he had done with his brother.

The west was still reeling from Dalton Greyjoy's sacking of Lannisport. Ser Clement Celtigar claimed they should let Greyjoy take the city now that Jason Lannister was dead, and his heir was a baby. Daemon wanted to offer Casterly Rock to one of the dragonseeds and get rid of any remaining Lannisters so that their bloodline would end along with their betrayal toward the queen.

Corlys and Jacaerys were against it, leading to the first disagreement between Jace's grandfather and the Prince of the City. After the first disagreement came the second, the third, and the fourth, until the King Consort became enraged when he realized the men no longer followed him.

When Maester Gerardys reported the queen's worsening condition, the Council's initial decision was to appoint the Crown Prince as Regent, while Daemon would remain only as Protector of the Realm. Support came mainly from Corlys; Massey and Celtigar remained neutral.

Daemon became enraged, his temper pouring out in harsh words as they fought in front of the Guard. Jace reminded him that he was not the reigning king, which infuriated him even more. He drew his sword, and the White Cloaks set out to defend the prince with triple weapons in hand. "To entrust the safety of the kingdom to a boy of ten and six is to decorate our tombs with green shrouds," he roared, looking directly at Corlys, with Dark Sister pointed at Lord Hand.

"Our shrouds would already be over our heads if we followed your every ambition," Jace replied.

Daemon's final answer was short: "You were more useful to me when you were dead."

He left the next day for Maidenpool, and he didn’t go alone.

"There's something almost sweet about the air in the Vale. The same smell as the clouds when you fly a dragon above them," he said, sinking his teeth into an almost black plum. It was surprisingly sweet for a fruit born in such an inhospitable place, but it was one of the many blessings of the Glass Gardens. Jace had another of those fruits tucked into his pocket, a gift from his morning visit. "When it rains, it's almost as if you can touch the lightning. I was scared of thunder for a while when I was a kid. When I asked my grandfather about it, he told me that no Targaryen has ever been struck by it, but I wouldn't want to be the first."

Cregan exhaled with an almost ironic frown, and Jace could swear he rolled his eyes if they weren't closed. His arms were crossed where he lay, and small rays of light cut through the canopy to paint his face.

"There's nothing sweet in the Vale, my prince. Ugly, cunning mountains, tough animals, and lousy leather. A hateful land for my people."

Jace laughed. "Ah, yes, I must assume you know much about the people from there."

The lord raised his eyebrows, his eyes still closed. "You seem to believe all the songs and poetry you hear. No land is that beautiful, not for everyone."

"What would a prince believe in if not singers and poets?" Jace said wryly, almost drawing a laugh from the lord in response. He bit into the fruit, the pain stinging his right hand where he held it, poking at a newly opened wound.

It was Cregan's terms for their pact, and Jace still had a long cut on the palm of his hand from where the blood dripped and mixed with the lord's. It was a promise that one day they would be family. A promise that one day they would be family. It was a more powerful act of trust for someone from the blood of Old Valyria than Cregan would ever understand.

"What is a prince, if not a source of distraction in the midst of war planning?" He answers, almost smiling this time as he looks at Jace through squinted eyes. 

"Forgive me, my lord, but it was you who followed me here this time." He replies, dumbfounded. "I'll leave the day after tomorrow, and then the gods know when I'll be able to enjoy peace and silence again."

"Do I disturb your peace and silence, Jace?" Cregan asks, crossing one arm over his head. Jace doesn't know if it's serious or a little joke; normally he has a hard time telling the difference in the intention behind the man's words.

"It's your godswood, my lord." Jace replies at last. He seems content with that, stretching out his hand to the prince's. He's not wearing any gloves, which is different most of the time. His hand is too warm when Jace intertwines his fingers with the lord's, dropping his half-bitten plum until it falls to the worn late-autumn ground. 

Under his touch, he feels Cregan's blood dripping from his palm, warm and viscous from where he too had cut himself. Jace's wound seems to reopen with that touch, soaking his fingers, his fist, the leaves, and the earth with the blood of the dragon. Jacaerys watches, alarmed or delighted, he can't tell, as dark red floods his and the lord's skin.

The sun is already descending when Lord Stark speaks again, so long after that Jace imagined perhaps he had been drained to death. There were no more autumn dried leaves, only the maculate earth and impure blood covering the roots of the dam, bathing the northern ground and sapping Jacaerys' strength as he drifted into darkness. 

"My godswood, my prince."

Jace wakes up trembling in his chamber. It takes a moment for him to get used to the softness of the bed instead of the damp snow. His right-hand aches, where a thin scar now pierces the palm, almost imperceptible.

His dreams of Cregan have become constant where they were once rare. He sees those steel eyes softening almost every night now, hears a voice he had almost forgotten for a time, practically smells him in his chambers. 

Memories mixed with imagination, fear, and bitterness.

Lord Stark no longer sends him any letters sealed with the fox and the rabbit. Nothing but official words for the Small Council. It hurts Jace more deeply than he would admit. The last words the man had written to him were still hidden in Dragonstone, so far away now.

He had nothing to remember the man by except for a dagger and his dreams.

Jace rubs his sleepy eyes and sits up in bed. On his pillow, a small, thin white branch rests, with a vibrant red five-pointed leaf, too bright for autumn.

Disturbing . He doesn’t remember having that with him before. He asks Ser Adrien to check his bedchamber—he doesn't want nocturnal visitors leaving gifts while he dreams.

The Usurper and his brother remained missing. With Daemon gone, the Council can consider plans previously blocked by the King Consort, such as offering terms of surrender.

The Lord Hand intends to use his hostages: the Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower and the young Helaena, both confined in Maegor's Holdfast, not far from the prince. And Jace went to Alicent first, as a courier.

Her quarters seem so dusty and cold that he doubts the curtains have been opened in recent days to let in the breeze or sunlight. Alicent was no more than a skeletal figure with downcast eyes and disheveled, dry hair; her lips were cracked with old sores, and her skin was so pale that it had become gray. He had heard stories about the Queen in Chains who knelt at Rhaenyra’s feet after the fall of King's Landing; he thinks that if she were to kneel now, she might never rise again.

"The former Hand is dead, and the Triarchy is defeated," Jace states solemnly to the woman. "Write to your youngest son and to Ormund Hightower, and I will reconsider the Usurper's life if he bends the knee," he says, extending a final effort. With Aemond and Aegon missing, the main strength of the Greens was Tessarion and the army to the southwest. "He could be sent to the Night’s Watch to live the rest of his years in greatness. My uncle Daeron could live at court as a guest, and my aunt Helaena will suffer no harm from my sword. Your grandchildren will live."

Alicent’s face glistens with tears streaming from her hollow eyes, never meeting the prince's gaze. Whether out of shame or fear, Jace will never know. She sniffs, hugging herself before opening her mouth.

"Rhaenyra's mercy never extended to Aemond," she says so softly that Jace has to lean in to hear. "I imagine yours does not either."

He does not need to think before replying. "There is a debt to be paid by the Kinslayer."

"All’… all this killing," she says, trembling, "is it for... for Prince Lucerys?" Her voice drips with remorse. Jace exhales loudly, weary.

"It is for all who are dying under your banner," he says. The woman seems disturbed, as if she does not even hear Jace's words. Her lips are so cracked that they bleed dark red. Tufts of hair are tangled in her nails, and Jace fears his plan will collapse if she has already succumbed to madness.

Alicent never responds, and he does not stay to watch over her.

Days later, she delivers the letters, written in trembling handwriting. Jace reads them with the Council before authorizing the Grand Maester to send them.

The former queen does not leave her chambers after that, and the prince does not seek her out again.

Two moons pass without any sign of the Green King or his Kinslayer brother. Jacaerys can no longer sleep. The betrayal at Tumbleton haunts the Prince Regent's mind night and day. 

Despite Ser Adrien guarding his door and a herbal tea prepared by the Grand Maester, his eyes find no rest unless he collapses from exhaustion. Perhaps he, too, is going mad like everyone else in this accursed fortress.

He spends most nights by his mother’s side after young Aegon has fallen asleep. She speaks to him sometimes, never fully lucid, but she holds his cheeks and whispers, "My beautiful boy. Have you come to take me away?"

He also visits Helaena occasionally. She asks about her children, Maelor and Jaehaera. Jace always gives the same answer: "I wish I knew, my princess." She gazes at him with sad, glassy eyes, but never responds harshly.

She does not condemn him for the sins of his kin, so he does the same.

The military campaign planned by Jace and Corlys successfully reclaims the Crownlands, retaking castles in ruins and villages desolated by Criston Cole's troops, from King's Landing to Harrenhal, from Duskendale to Maidenpool. Lord Garmon leads the garrison, comprising men from Driftmark to Claw Isle, and survivors of the Kingmaker’s attacks with nothing left to lose.

For the oathbreakers who raised green banners at the first sight of the Green's cavalry, Jace follows his uncle Daemon's precedent and commands their beheading—in the name of the queen's justice.

Tumbleton remains lost to a leaderless army after Ormund Hightower's death. The city is still guarded by the treacherous dragons Silverwing and Vermithor, a loss so great for Rhaenyra's loyalists that the prince feared losing their support for a moment. Distrust towards the dragonseeds among the members of the Small Council grows, fanned by Lord Celtigar and supported by the Manderlys. Practically all loyalists demand a harsh inquisition of Addam Velaryon and Nettles, fearing another bastard betrayal.

Jace is appalled by the accusation's incredulity. Who would he be if he upheld the precedent that bastards are nothing but traitors?

It is decided that a guard be mounted around the young Velaryon boy in the Dragonpit, commanded by Medrick Manderly and Ser Loreth of the Queensguard. Corlys seems to relax in his seat for the first time in a long while; Jace pretends not to notice.

A raven is sent to Maidenpool, ordering the return of Nettles and Sheepstealer, but no response comes.

The threat of a siege of King's Landing by land persists as long as Tumbleton remains occupied, and the city walls are sealed until further notice. The risk of an army advancing from the south is greater than it has been throughout the war, so they double the Velaryon forces in Blackwater Bay while Lord Garmon's precarious army holds the land.

All of his and his family's efforts would be in vain if he were to lose King's Landing to Hightower or Baratheon.

The small council meetings are little indulgences in self-flagellation for the prince. "Where did I fail?" he asks, his eyes fixed on the map of the realms, longing for the Painted Table. "Where did I fail, Mother?"

He repeats the same words to his mother, no more than skin and bone, when she wakes. Rhaenyra looks into his eyes but says nothing. She has been practically dead for a long time.

He returns to his chambers and studies the next steps. Tumbleton. Storm’s End. Oldtown.

A fortnight later, he departs under the cover of night to meet an old friend from the very beginning of the war. He descends from the heavens with Vermax at the camp in the Riverlands, south of the God's Eye. A hundred frightened soldiers stare at him across the camp before he is invited into the command tent.

“It’s risky enough to be inadvisable,” Lady Frey says to the Prince Regent. Her father, a man as angular in bone as his daughter, nods as he examines Jace's letter with raised eyebrows. Lord Simon Vypren, Jace recalls, was an old warrior with hair so white he could be mistaken for a Targaryen in his youth. His son and heir, Edmund, looms over them from the farthest corner of the tent.

“The campaign is planned to advance towards King’s Landing,” Lord Simon remarks.

“What hasn't been risky in these times?” Jacaerys asks, his voice lacking the confidence he wishes to convey. “My intention is to end this war swiftly before it drags on for another year. Have the Riverlands not suffered enough, with their men reduced to fish food?”

“The war here is not won. There are no Greens for leagues, and even the grass changes color as we approach; but the strength of ten divided men may not be enough against a traitor alone.”

“When Baratheon joins his forces with the Hightower army, it will be too late,” he sighs, weary. From the other corner of the table, Alysanne Blackwood gazes at him with raven-like eyes from beneath disheveled curls. “If King’s Landing falls again, this time to an entire army, who guarantees we’ll retake the city? Or that there will be anything left to reclaim after the Usurper’s men sack the houses, rape the women, and impale the dragons?”

“The idea of taking Tumbleton, my prince, is… difficult to guarantee,” Lord Simon says, tracing the map with wrinkled fingers. “To divest ourselves of two-thirds of the garrison to assault a fortified city—”

“ Siege .”

“With three dragons inside? Which loyalist survived to tell you what happened to those who raised any banner of the queen near the Green army?”

Jace has no answer for that; his most loyal forces have long been devoured by Tessarion and his youngest uncle.

“Thousands of men died for Tumbleton,” Jace argues. “Others were accused of being blood traitors or worse. For a city we couldn’t even capture, I come not as your friend, Sabitha, but I wish you to think of me as such. And I’m telling you that the Queen’s army needs to end the torment in the Reach. It’s time to put an end to the army of oathbreakers.”

He locks steely eyes with Lady Frey. She shifts uncomfortably, her brows furrowed. “You intend to take your dragon and Ser Addam Velaryon’s.”

It’s almost a question. “Yes. Ser Addam is loyal to my House, I assure you. And Lady Baela will remain to guard King’s Landing in our absence with her dragon.”

“And her father? And the other bastard dragon with him—” Edmund begins, stepping forward from behind his sister.

“Daemon is still hunting the Kinslayer since he vanished from the Riverlands. The bastard dragon is commanded by a girl who follows him. Nettles is her name. I’ve had no word of her since the betrayal at Tumbleton.”

“Should we consider her a threat to be avoided?” Sabitha asks, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. Jace swallows hard.

“Consider that Daemon will have his reins tightened where necessary,” he says, not believing his own words. His uncle had grown erratic and restless with the war, scouring the skies for Vhagar and Aemond and finding not even a bone to chew. Jace prefers to leave him be; he doubts the sanity of the pretenders if they choose to attack King’s Landing in his absence. Especially with the Black Army skirting from the Crownlands to Driftmark.

“Very well,” Lady Frey finally says. “We can agree to send two-thirds of our men south. As you request.”

“It is too much,” Lord Vypren mutters, but is silenced by his daughter’s glance.

“It is more than enough,” Jace responds, finally releasing the breath he’d been holding. “I will join the troops once they cross the river and bring the dragons with me.”

He stands, and his hosts mirror the gesture. The Vypren men bid simple farewells and leave the tent. Edmund shoots an accusatory glare at Jace, his frog-like eyes burning into him.

Sabitha waits for them to leave before sinking into her chair, rubbing her forehead with her fingers.

“I’ve never denied you anything, prince Jacaerys,” she says, and the Blackwood girl gently strokes her shoulder before going to fill large silver goblets with sweet southern wine. “Nor our queen. But you must be careful when I place my men’s lives in your hands.”

I'm not taking my men south for a prince who makes me lose such precious goods.

"They became willing to die for the queen the moment they declared themselves against the unfaithful," he says, receiving a shocked look from both women. "That doesn't mean I won't be there to protect them."

The same way I protected Viserys? He asks himself. In his mind, the voice sounds like his uncle. 

You were more useful to me when you were dead.

Sabitha sips from her goblet until it's empty. 

"How is Queen Rhaenyra?" She asks quietly, "There's a song for you both, did you know? The Sleeping Queen and the Boy King. It's not very pleasant."

"Nothing these days has been." It's Alysanne who speaks up, making herself heard for the first time in the evening. Her cloak is pinned by a weirwood brooch, and Jace avoids looking at it for too long. 

"I'm no king. And she's the same as ever, ever since I got back." He repeats the same answer he gives to everyone outside the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra is a strong as her birthright! Whispered the Green loyalists. Words that the Small Council tried to keep out of Jace's ears. Thanks to her, a bastard sits on the Iron Throne!

"I couldn't believe it when they reported that you were dead." Sabitha says, for the first time, touching on the subject. Jace shudders at the thought: "Much of the war force has been lost in the weeks since." 

Much of the war force hadn't even returned, as far as he knew. Even more men lowered their banners when Rhaenyra was incapacitated. Jace fought constantly to keep the allied Houses this way. 

"I received ravens with messages doubting my story. Or accusing me of sorcery." He says, and it's Alysanne who laughs. "Some lords haven't even answered my letters again."

"Paramount?" Sabitha asks with a chuckle, and Jace confirms, "Riverrun thought it was a trick of your uncle Aegon's until Daemon Targaryen confirmed your resurrection."

"So did Greyjoy. And, um, Stark." He says this, uncomfortable with the word in his mouth. "Neither reported any direct information to me, ever again. Only to the Council."

Lady Frey stares at him for a moment, her index finger sliding along the rim of her empty cup, before she sighs. "Northerners are a hopeless case; if they could replace the ravens with talking trees, they'd do it gladly. There's not much faith in those who see their gods in roots and leaves, and hearing about the resurrection of a prince tests people's faith a lot."

Alysanne snorts, displeased. 

"That Roddy Ruin. Talkative little man, you know," she says, sipping from her own cup. She holds out an empty one to Jace, who nods, "But very gullible. Loyal to the last strand of white hair. He asked me if there was anything else under my skirts and laughed when I dared him to look. Well, he soon had his ugly nose broken."

Her voice is softer when she adds: "It's not so difficult, you know. With the Northerners."

Sabitha rolls her eyes, and Jace smiles in disbelief. 

"He said: let's feast on a good kill, before leaving with his Winter Wolves." Lady Frey speaks, pulling a long, light brown braid from under her chain mail. The woman was dressed like a knight, sword and all, while Alysanne Blackwood wore only a tunic covered by leather and a bronze breastplate, too large for her slender body. "I think the greatest mercy for these people will be to die away from the ice and snow. To experience the sun on their faces at least once before closing their eyes forever." 

Jace disagrees: "The greatest mercy is to sign your will of honor with one last breath after a brave fight." He murmurs, silencing the two women for a moment.

"To Prince Jacaerys, the Northerner," Alysanne proclaims, breaking the silence and raising her own cup, "thanks to you, the first men will return to haunt the southrons. Too many Andals are building septs too close to our homes."

The last sentence she says is almost in a whisper to Lady Frey, who pushes her gently on the shoulder. "Let's not disrespect the prince, shall we? Targaryens follow the Faith as much as I do."

Alysanne wrinkles her nose, this time at Jace, and he thinks her expression isn't much different. "Well, too bad for both of you, then." She mutters, half-drunk. 

"Aly, dear. Would you verify for me if the prince's dragon hasn't eaten any of my kin, please?"

"It would end our war efforts," she says, leaving with a slight bow, "my prince."

When she leaves them without another word, Sabitha turns her narrowed eyes to Jacaerys. 

"Do you intend to leave in the morrow?" she asks, shrugging. "We can pitch a tent if you want to inspect the soldiers. It would be good for morale."

Jace nods.

"I'll go straight away. It's not far to King's Landing, and I'd rather not let them know that there's one less dragon guarding the city."

She ponders for a moment, circling the rim of her empty cup with her fingers. "I'll join you in Tumbleton, but... it would increase our forces with siege weapons that we don't have here."

Sabitha pressed her lips together before continuing, "A larger army would also do. More resources would be needed, yes, but it would take us less time to receive their surrender."

Jace sighs before replying, "The loyal men have already been recruited by Ser Addam, My Lady. There are no more rivermen to claim that we haven't already done." 

"There's an army of Northerners with three times as many men a week's ride from here."

"I don't have enough time to wait for the North." Jace states categorically, "It would have to be a small detachment. Like Roderick Dustin's, or even smaller."

"It would serve us better than a thousand knights." Sabitha adds, frowning, "I say that because I've seen them fight. The Kingmaker himself didn't live to see it." 

Jace squeezed his eyebrows together, too tempted to deny it. In his mind, he ached at the thought of leaving the city for another day. With Vhagar and Sunfyre missing and the traitorous dragons Vermithor and Silverwing and Tessarion reclusive in Tumbleton, the prince liked to spread the message that the city still had four dragons: Seasmoke, the incapacitated Syrax, Vermax and Moondancer a short flight away. 

Caraxes and Sheepstealer were considerable losses for the capital's forces. With Daemon still in seclusion, the Small Council demanded his return. No answer had come back from Maidenpool. 

Abandoning the city to travel further north would put him at even greater risk. But… having a larger army and real siege weapons tempted him like a sweet poison. 

"I will write to Stark, if that is your wish," Jace said, tapping his fingers against the table as he thought. "But I must return to King's Landing without deviating from my path."

To Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North,
I write in the name of my mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men and Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, at the request of Lady Sabitha of House Frey, to demand the advance of a detachment of the northern forces to join the ranks of the Rivermen to the west of Kingswood at the source of the Mander before the next moon.
I trust your loyalty to House Targaryen to fulfill your oaths. This time, I will not take silence for an answer.
Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.

Jace spends the next few nights trapped in his bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast. He writes to Lady Jeyne Arryn and sends Ser Medrick Manderly across the sea to look for ships to take the Vale army to King's Landing. He plans his war by night and hears petitions from the smallfolk by day, with Lord Hand at his side. He reads Addam Velaryon's letters about his campaign to finish gathering the men north of Harrenhal and dreads the day he will have to march to Tumbleton. 

There are some things, however, that Jace still can't do. He doesn't see his mother when the court is awake, preferring to visit her when everyone else is asleep. He doesn't read Joffrey's or Rhaena's letters. He barely listens when Baela speaks to him.

The disease has already affected a good half of the queen's body. Her veins are traced like ink under her skin—black, bloody lines that reach all the way to her face. The consensus on the disease among the maesters and healers points to some potent poison from beyond the Jade Sea. 

Rhaenyra, in her few sane moments, cries in her son's arms when she realizes that he is not just a mirage. She apologizes to him about things that Jace has no memory of between sobs; her voice is too weak. She trembles for a war that wasn't worth the price of the crown, if that price was taking three of her children. 

One day, she gets up to hug little Aegon, trembling and crying in his mother's arms, but it isn't long before she lies down again, too tired.

The day before his departure for Tumbleton, almost a moon after his visit to Sabitha Frey, Jace finally feels that he has made the city safe. With Ser Medrick come the warships across the bay, with two thousand men-at-arms from the Vale, bearing the white and blue banner of Arryn. Ser Addam flies with Seasmoke alongside the men of the Riverlands; Jace finally feels he can leave the place without fear of not having a home to return to. 

It is when he goes to say goodbye to his mother that he finds Daemon at her bedside. The man doesn't even turn to look at him but continues to mutter words to the Sleeping Queen for a moment. 

"Jacaerys," he says, "come here."

He goes cautiously until he prostrates himself at his mother's bed. The queen lies sleeping, almost peacefully, as the King Consort looks worn out, sitting at her side, between golden pillows. His hair is as short as Jace has ever seen it, and he wears more pieces of armor than would be comfortable in a bedchamber. 

"Uncle. You're back."

The former Prince of the City smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you still angry with me for trying to win your mother's war?"

A curious way of putting it. He wanted to mold the kingdom to his will, oust ancient lords, undermine the advance of the men of the Vale, and drown out the rebellions of the little people with terror.

"My opinions of you mean little and less." He replies calmly. Daemon raises his eyebrows in surprise. "I'm leaving to take Tumbleton in her name."

" Congratulations . And you infested the town with Vale pigeons on the way to do it. It's no better than a dragon, but it'll be enough to keep the yellow cockroach away. For now." He says this, shrugging. 

"Sunfyre hasn't been seen for almost a year. Aegon-"

"Don't count on the uncertain, nephew," he says, looking at the prince sidelong. "I have a gift for you. I'll deliver it if you get back from Tumbleton, of course. I imagine you don't want me around, and I don't intend to leave Rhaenyra again."

Jace let the air out of his lungs, relieved that the man had said it instead of him. "It would be better to keep an adult dragon in the city."

It takes some time before he completes, his voice coming out wounded: "And I don't want my mother-"

To die alone . The words never come out. Like Luke and Viserys.

"Aegon seems to be improving her spirits." Jace continues, stretching his lips. "And he misses his father."

When Daemon doesn't reply, the Prince says goodbye to his mother and leaves to join the men of the Riverlands on dragonback. 

With an army of women, old men, and children, it's how the Prince and Ser Addam advance through Tumbleton. For one night, victory seems so close that it burns on the tongue when each Hightower soldier falls by dragon fire or the force of the sword. 

Jace sees life leave a soldier's eyes through his blade for the first time. His own old wounds hurt so much that his flesh rips again under his armor, his bones crack, and he screams, from hatred or pain. The man has eyes as black as night, and his banner is the High Tower.

When Jace is overcome by the pain of his wounds, Vermax shouts from the heavens and unleashes a column of fire on the Green camp lines. The soldier's body falls at Jace's feet, and he draws back his sword. 

He knew he would never be able to forget the face of that first man. But the clouds soon cover the moon, and he doesn't see the eyes of the next. 

There is a bard outside the walls of Tumbleton who claims to have served Lord Tyrell since childhood. An irritating young man with brown hair and eyes and doe-like features, a broken nose, and green clothes. They call him Honeycomb. 

It is he who composed the first song about the Second Tumbleton, called The Dancing Dragons. The song permeates the camp, guided by the growling of the dying dragons, who lick their wounds on the hill and release columns of fire to light up the night sky. It goes this way:

Oh, traitor dragons in the sky,

With flames and roars, they soar so high.

In fields of grass, fierce and grand,

Their legacy shall never stand.

The sun is not even up when Jace manages to find his way back to his tent. His small army is meager: old and sick men, rejected women, and boys who are nothing more than children. And yet they've narrowly missed bringing down the city gates. Casualties had been minimal. The young lord of Raventree Hall, Ben Blackwood, fills his stomach with ale while singing the ridiculous victory song alongside the Tully of Riverrun, Kermit, a young man not much older than Jace. Hugo Vance waves to the prince with his full mug, as does Black Aly, from where she strings new bronze tips on her arrows. 

The prince's tent has been pitched for him and Ser Addam, dragonriders of House Velaryon. Now, when he enters, there is no Addam—still unconscious after Seasmoke's fall—along with the other wounded—only a silver boy with half his face covered in blood, bound hand and foot. 

" Nephew," the captive says, his voice heavy and strained from bruised lips, "it's been a while since we last saw each other. You've grown up."

The only other man in the tent, Ser Adrien of the Queensguard, takes a step closer as his uncle Daeron glares at him with bloodshot eyes. Jace undoes it with a gesture to the knight, stepping forward himself.

"Leave us, Ser Adrien," he says, taking a seat at the small wooden table covered by a large map. He waits for the knight to leave before looking at Daeron, tied to the central pillar that supports the tent: like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered.

He was a few weeks older than Jace, a few centimeters taller, too. The Prince Regent remembered the quiet, gentle boy his uncle had once been, much more like Helaena than Aegon or Aemond. They used to swap clothes to annoy Queen Alicent, fight over who would have the biggest dragon, and watch tournaments in the same lodge. 

Then time passed, Luke stopped being a crybaby, and Jace started to get bitter about Alicent's children. Daeron soon headed south. 

The Prince Regent looks for madness in the young boy's eyes, like his mother. Hatred, like in Aemond's, or malice in Aegon's. There's none of that.

  Yet whispers echo through the night, 

Of ancient bonds now torn by spite.

Their scream resound, their flames consume, 

A final tale of fire, and doom.

"I offered surrender to you and to Ormund Hightower. Your mother sent my terms; I proofread the letter myself."

Daeron held his gaze with his almost indigo iris. His hair was dyed with blood. His or the others', Jace couldn't tell. 

"It wasn't my decision to make." He answers. Jace shakes his head in disbelief. 

"You were the dragonrider of the Hightower army. It was more yours than that of any other man there."

Daeron lets out a chuckle, his head falling forward for a moment.

" Were . Is Tessarion dead?" He asks, and Jace admires the effort not to tremble in his voice.

"Not yet." He answers, seeing the relief flood his uncle's features for a moment, "But she will die at daybreak. That's your punishment for now."

"For now." He sneers, arching his eyebrows. "Jacaerys, the Dragonslayer. I never imagined you'd be the one to spit on our family's legacy like that."

It's Jace's turn to stare at him, incredulous for a moment. "You dare talk about family with me, of all people? How many kin have I lost since the Hightowers decided to raise their ambitions? Your blood is green, uncle. Don't be mistaken for a Targaryen just because you rode a dragon."

In the end, Daeron laughs. Like a court jester, he laughs loudly until he coughs and spits blood onto the carpet, choking as his chest heaves rhythmically. "Is that what you tell yourself to feel better? To help you sleep at night?"

Jace leans back in his chair and sighs. Maybe, he thinks, staring into his uncle's narrowed eyes. 

Daeron had always been the mirror of what he should have looked like. As silver as his sister Rhaenyra, with eyes as purple as King Viserys' and the same nose as his mother. Jacaerys felt envy when he didn't even know what that word meant. 

Now, he felt only hatred for that insolent boy who brought him down south for being a traitor and following his bloodthirsty brothers. Who wasted his troops on a fruitless siege, who had led his father's dragon, Seasmoke, to his death and almost killed Ser Addam in the process.

Oh dragons, hear the sound!

Of fallen kin upon the ground,

Oh dragons, hear the sound!

Disowned king, his throne unbound.

"I've offered mercy too many times. You'll be dealing with fewer patient men than me now," Jace declared. The prince would rather endure the drunken chanting of a victory night than deal with one of the Greens so closely.

"Jace," Daeron called weakly, his voice rising above the chanting, "when you kill me, consider it your last mercy to burn my body."

Outside, the sky was filled with the cries of dying dragons. Jace left the tent in Ser Adrien's care, not even casting a final glance at his uncle. "I'll be back in two days. Don't let anyone leave before I arrive," he instructed the knight.

He finds Vermax sleeping around an abandoned campfire at the edge of the camp, and takes to the skies, flying over the clouds to the source of the Mander.

He doesn't wait for daybreak, flying when the night is darkest to where the riverbed is filling up to wipe the smoke, sweat, and blood from his face. Jace lets the cold water wash his wounds now that the battle had come to an end, fresh scars from where the Triarchy had made him a target now almost reopened. Without the weight of the sword, his arm ached like death, and he doubted he would be sword fighting on the next day.

His hair remained damp as he led Vermax to an oak tree beside the water, letting the dragon curl up on the trunk to sleep after a night of battle. 

Later, as dawn breaks, a knight dismounts on the riverbank. Jace wakes up, roused by the sound of hooves trotting through the grass, and stands up.

It's Cregan. He’s alone, unexpectedly, in riding gloves and boots and a wolfskin cloak around his shoulders. Jace should have known it was him when the dragon doesn't growl and spit fire at the slightest sound of a gallop. 

" Jacaerys ." It's the first thing he's said to her in a year, after dismounting. His horse marches off towards the river, and the man strides up to the prince in disbelief. 

“My Lord Stark.” Says the prince, as politely as he can. “I believe my raven has reached you.”

For a while, he imagined what it would be like to once again be reunited with a man who had become mere sand in his memory, but who returned like the fiercest of flames in his dreams. The lord that stirred in Jace the essence of sin through which kings lost themselves—desire, will. Trust.

This time, everything is mingled with hatred. He wants to punch the man, still seething with the fever of the slaughter coursing through his veins. Why didn't you write back? Jace wants to ask. Why did it take you so long to come to me?

"It is you." The leather of the riding gloves burns Jace's cold cheeks as hot as his dragon's scales. "I couldn't believe it when they told me you were dead. Even less when… When I heard the opposite thing."

"You-" Jace tries, his eyes reaching the northerner's for a moment before falling again, feeling the touch of leather on his cheek, circling the lord's fist with his fingers where the skin hides. "You wouldn't be the first."

"Men aren't reborn in the North, Jace," Cregan adds, shock still quivering in his voice as he rubs his thumbs over the prince's cheeks. He appears as the great lord he is, larger and more severe than Jace remembered from his smoky memories and almost reminiscent dreams. Jace wonders what he looks like to Cregan—less the boy and more the sovereign regent of an entire realm. "And if they are, it's not in the right way."

"I'm here now, aren't I?" The prince says, his voice authoritative. "Isn't that what matters?"
He doesn't like the slight horror that crosses Cregan's eyes for the slightest second, before his eyes lock onto Jace's for a considerably long time. He doesn't seem to find what he's looking for, and finally lets out a breath. 

"I wonder what the price will be," Cregan asks, dropping a hand to the back of the prince's neck as he looks down at him, "to get you back. The dragon that almost slipped through my fingers once again."

"Isn't one war to fight enough of a price? You kept your promise to me: you came all the way to the South. No more debt must now be paid by you."

"What do you mean?" he asks, frowning. "You have as much of my blood as I have of yours. No debt remains individual after such a commitment."

The prince remains silent, while his lord adds, "I wouldn't mind taking on any charge now that you're here again."

It's like breathing once more when Cregan kisses him, after so many moons that Jace had unlearned how such a gesture threw him out of balance. It's not as soft and tender as the first two, soaked in Lucerys' recent grief but violently traced by the prince's own desperation at needing to realize that, yes, he really did live . 

He clings to the back of his lord's neck, so different from his vivid dreams where the man's hair was longer; he lets him cradle his back and press him against his body until Jace can feel nothing but the warmth of their skins. 

It hurts where he is wounded, with the same burning pain as when he cut his hand to seal their pact. It revives a part of the prince that he hadn't imagined was dormant, and ignites in him a fire not so different from the one that seized his chest in battle. 

It ends shortly afterward, when Jace's lips are tingling and his lungs are aching. Cregan kisses him on the chin and cheeks before taking his lips away, and the prince is reluctant to let go. He keeps his forehead on the lord's, still holding the back of his neck to keep him close, sharing the same breath. Now that he has him under his fingers again, he's afraid he'll disappear when he opens his eyes. 

“Here's the word of a half-dead man, then. And a request,” Jace says, almost in a whisper, “consider the price I ask you to pay.”

Gray eyes sparkle with curiosity. “Anything.”

Now that he had him there, Jace was determined not to let him slip away again. He could afford to be selfish. He wanted to be selfish.

“When the time comes, and I ask something of you that costs too much, I hope you'll accept. In the war. And in King's Landing.”

He knows he's asking too much, especially from a man who so openly turned up his nose at any mention of the South. For Cregan Stark, the war was above the Neck, where the snow was already falling, and the people were already perishing.

And yet.

It doesn't take long for Cregan to answer. His voice floods Jace to the bone. 

"To you are promised the Seven Kingdoms," he says, gripping Jace's chin and looking him directly in the eye, as serious as he is truthful. “I will stand by you to uphold that claim."