Cold drafts swept through the high stone arches of the Chamber of the Painted Table, carrying the salt-thick scent of the Blackwater. Jacaerys Velaryon leaned over the massive, carved map of Westeros, his fingers tracing the borders of the Riverlands with a desperate sort of focus.
Sweat pooled at the base of his neck, cold and uncomfortable under his heavy leather collar. He had not slept in three days, his mind entirely consumed by the terrifying reality of the war that was already knocking at their gates.
Ink stained his cuticles, dark and stubborn, a testament to the hours he had spent calculating grain yields, troop movements, and shipping lanes.
Behind him, the great fire in the hearth crackled, casting long, erratic shapes across the painted wood of the table.
"We need three thousand bushels of wheat from the Reach just to keep the garrison fed through the first moon of winter," Jace said, his voice cracking slightly before he corrected his pitch.
Nobody answered.
Instead, the low murmur of whispering lords filled the corners of the room.
Lord Celtigar was leaning close to Lord Staunton, their heads bowed together in whispered conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with supply lines.
Across the table, Daemon Targaryen stood with his arms crossed, a thin, patronizing smile playing on his lips.
Dark Sister gleamed at his hip, the dark Valyrian steel catching the red light of the coals.
"Our sweet prince worries about bread while the usurper gathers swords in the south," Daemon drawled, his voice carrying easily over the whispers of the council.
Luke let out a soft snort of laughter from where he sat, carving a small piece of driftwood with a blunt kitchen knife.
Jace felt a familiar heat rise in his chest, a burning mixture of shame and frustration that he forced down with a sharp swallow.
"Bread wins wars, Uncle," Jace replied, keeping his tone as level as he could.
"Men cannot fight on empty stomachs, and dragons cannot eat ash."
"Dragons eat whatever they want," Daemon countered, stepping closer to the table.
He reached into his leather doublet, his movements slow and deliberate, drawing the eyes of every man in the room.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed something onto the painted map.
Sliding across the wood, a magnificent dagger came to a stop right in front of Luke's hands.
Valyrian steel rippled along the short blade, and the hilt was wrapped in supple dragonbone, polished to a dark sheen.
"A real weapon for a real prince," Daemon said, his eyes never leaving Jace's face.
Luke dropped his piece of driftwood, his eyes widening as he stared at the blade.
"Is this... for me?" Luke whispered, almost afraid to touch it.
"For you," Daemon confirmed, clapping a heavy hand onto the younger boy's shoulder.
"A reward for a boy who shows a true dragon's spirit, rather than wasting his youth playing with ledger books."
Humiliation, sharp and cold, pierced Jace's chest.
He felt the gaze of the lords shift to him, their silent, mocking judgments heavier than any armor.
Whispering tongues always found a way to remind him of what he lacked.
Whispers of "Strong" and "bastard" seemed to echo from the very stones of the castle.
Memories of his late father, Ser Harwin Strong, flashed in Jace's mind—his broad shoulders, his warm laughter, and his tragic death in the fire of Harrenhal.
Guilt from that tragic fire was a heavy weight in Jace's chest, a burden he carried every single day.
Gripping the carved edge of the Painted Table, Jace squeezed until his knuckles turned a bloodless white.
His fingernails bit into the ancient stone, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the roaring in his ears.
"We cannot win a war with one dagger, Uncle," Jace said, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet.
"But we can lose one if our men starve in their barracks."
Daemon laughed, a sharp, mocking sound that echoed off the high rafters.
"Listen to him," Daemon sneered, looking around the room at the gathered lords.
"Our future king sounds more like a master of coin than a warrior."
"Perhaps he should trade his dragon for a mule."
Several of the lords chuckled, the sound cutting Jace deeper than any blade could.
Jace looked toward his mother, Rhaenyra, seeking some form of defense, some sign that she saw his effort.
She sat at the head of the table, her face pale and drawn, her eyes heavy with grief.
She did not speak.
Instead, she merely watched Daemon with a quiet, submissive look that made Jace's stomach twist.
Ever since Daemon had returned to her side, she had grown smaller, her fierce light dimmed by his shadow.
"Go on, Luke," Daemon urged, ignoring Jace entirely.
"Show us how a true Targaryen handles those who would steal his birthright."
Luke picked up the dagger, his small fingers wrapping awkwardly around the dragonbone hilt.
He made a clumsy, stabbing motion in the air, grinning widely.
"I'll slice them open!" Luke declared, his chest puffing out.
"Aemond will learn what happens when he threatens my family!"
"Spoken like a true Lord of Driftmark," Lord Celtigar praised, bowing low to the younger boy.
"Clearly, the blood of the dragon runs strong in this one."
Every word felt like a deliberate insult.
Everyone in this room knew that Daemon's blood did not run in Luke's veins.
They were Strongs, born of a dead knight with brown hair and a broad nose.
Yet Daemon chose to play the proud father to Luke, while treating Jace like an unwanted servant.
"My brother is not yet the Lord of Driftmark," Jace interrupted, his voice cutting through the laughter like a cold wind.
"And he will never be if we do not secure the shipping lanes."
Silence fell over the room, sudden and suffocating.
Daemon slowly turned his gaze back to Jace, his violet eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
"You speak of duty, Jace," Daemon whispered, his voice dangerously soft.
"But duty without fire is nothing but a slow death."
"Fire without direction is just a wildfire that burns its own house down," Jace shot back.
He stood his ground, refusing to look away from his stepfather's predatory gaze.
"We need the North, and we need the Eyrie."
"If we do not send messengers on dragonback, the Greens will reach them first."
"And who would you send?" Daemon mocked, leaning forward.
"Yourself? On your little hatchling?"
"Vermax is large enough to fly," Jace hissed, his jaw clenching so hard it ached.
"He is faster than Caraxes, and he actually listens to his rider."
Tension in the room stretched to a breaking point.
Daemon's lazy smile vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look that had preceded the deaths of many men.
"Careful, boy," Daemon warned, his hand drifting toward the pommel of Dark Sister.
"Do not mistake your mother's kindness for weakness, or mine for patience."
Rhaenyra finally stood up, her dark silk gown rustling against the stone floor.
"Enough," she commanded, her voice tired but firm.
"We will not fight among ourselves while the Greens prepare to march."
She looked at Jace, her expression softening with a mixture of pity and regret.
"Jace, your logistics are noted. Go and rest. We will make our final decisions on the messengers in the morning."
Dismissed.
Like a child who had made a scene at a feast.
Jace swallowed the bitter taste of humiliation, bowing stiffly to his mother.
"As you wish, Your Grace," he said, the words tasting like poison.
Turning on his heel, he marched out of the Chamber of the Painted Table.
His boots clicked loudly against the stone, a solitary rhythm that seemed to mock his retreat.
Behind him, he heard Luke's high-pitched laughter and Daemon's low, encouraging murmur resume.
---
Outside, the sea wind howled through the narrow stone corridors of Dragonstone, biting through his leather doublet.
Jace walked without seeing, his mind a chaotic storm of anger and grief.
Ancient walls of the castle felt more like a tomb today, their dark basalt sweating with moisture from the sea.
Gargoyles snarled from every corner, their stone eyes watching him as if they too knew he was a pretender.
He had spent his entire life trying to be perfect.
Hours of study, sleepless nights learning High Valyrian, and endless drilling in the yard had been his only reality.
All of it was to make up for the hair that was too brown, the nose that was too blunt, and the rumors that whispered he was no true Targaryen.
Yet none of it mattered.
To Daemon, he was just a bastard secretary, a nuisance to be tolerated.
Many of the lords only tolerated him because his mother commanded it.
Even his betrothed had abandoned him.
Baela had been his only light in this dark castle, the one person he believed saw him for who he was.
Then came the announcement.
She had called off their engagement, choosing to marry Luke instead.
"It is for the good of Driftmark," she had told him, her voice cold and detached as they stood in the godswood.
"Luke needs a strong wife to guide him. You are the heir to the Iron Throne, Jace. You do not need me."
It was a lie.
She had looked at his brown hair, then at Luke's Valyrian-adjacent features, and she had made her choice.
Everyone made their choice, and it was never Jace.
Reaching his quarters, he pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the dim room.
A single candle flickered on his desk, casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls.
Sitting on the dark wood of the desk was a small stack of correspondence.
Most of it was routine reports from the harbor, but one letter caught his eye.
Stamped with blue wax, it bore the twin moons of House Velaryon, but with a personal touch—a small, stylized dragon pressed into the corner.
Baela's personal seal.
His heart did a painful, violent flip in his chest, his breath catching in his throat.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as his fingers hovered over the parchment.
Why was she writing to him now?
Had she changed her mind?
Was she apologizing for the humiliation she had inflicted upon him?
Before his fingers could touch the wax, a shadow fell over the desk.
Jace spun around, his hand instinctively dropping to the hilt of his sword.
Luke stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smug, self-satisfied grin on his face.
He was tossing his new Valyrian steel dagger in the air, catching it effortlessly.
Jace's eyes fall upon a freshly delivered letter bearing Baela's personal seal, but before he can break the wax, Luke smugly whispers, 'She wrote to me first, brother.'