Rain lashed against the heavy obsidian arches of the outer courtyard. Grey clouds hung low over the smoking peaks of Dragonstone, casting the entire island in a grim, perpetual twilight. Inside the damp walls of the keep, the air felt thick with the scent of wet stone, salt, and old metal.
Wind howled through the narrow stone slits, bringing the chill of the Blackwater deep into the castle. It was a cold that seemed to settle in the very bones of those who lived here, a constant reminder of their isolation. For Jace, the cold was a familiar companion, but today it felt sharper, cutting through his thick woolen doublet like a blade.
Jacaerys stood before his ironbound trunk, his fingers tracing the cold leather of his riding boots. He tried to focus on the simple, repetitive task of packing, forcing his hands to remain steady as he folded his heavy cloaks. Each movement was deliberate, a desperate attempt to anchor himself in the physical world.
Anger still burned hot in his throat, a lingering poison from the previous night's council. He could still see the mocking glint in Daemon's violet eyes as the Rogue Prince handed the Valyrian steel dagger to Lucerys. It had been a public dismissal of Jace's authority, a silent declaration to the entire court that the eldest heir was second in his stepfather's eyes.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory, but it only morphed into the smug face of his younger brother. Lucerys had laughed when Jace confronted him, holding up the letter from Baela as if it were a trophy of war. The realization that his betrothed had written to Luke first, sharing secrets that should have been Jace's alone, felt like a slow twist of a knife in his ribs.
Shadows flickered against the stone walls as the torchlight struggled against the gloomy morning. Jace reached for a leather-bound book of Valyrian histories, his knuckles white as he gripped the spine. He wanted to throw it against the wall, to scream until his throat was raw, but the heavy weight of his duty held him fast.
Lucerys appeared in the doorway, leaning against the arched frame with an easy, careless grace that Jace could never seem to master. He was twirling the new Valyrian steel dagger between his fingers, the dark, rippled metal catching the weak light. His dark curls were messy, damp from the courtyard rain, and his smirk was as insufferable as ever.
A light chuckle escaped Luke's lips as he watched his brother pack. "Still packing, Jace? Our mother wants the baggage train ready within the hour. King's Landing won't wait for your slow hands."
"Still playing with your new toy, Luke?" Jace countered, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He did not look up from his trunk, keeping his attention fixed on the leather straps of his jerkin.
Luke stepped into the room, his boots scraping softly against the uneven stone floor. He held the dagger up, admiring the way the light danced along the edge. "Daemon says a prince should always carry a blade that commands respect. He says the Greens will look for any sign of weakness when we arrive at court."
Playfully, he tossed the dagger in the air, catching it by the hilt with a practiced flick of his wrist. "He thinks you are too soft for what is coming, Jace. He thinks King's Landing will swallow you whole."
"Our stepfather has many opinions, none of which concern me," Jace said, finally looking up. His dark eyes locked onto his brother's smug face, his jaw clenching tightly. "And I suggest you put that blade away before you cut yourself. You are not a warrior, Luke, no matter how many toys Daemon gives you."
Jace stepped closer, his chest rising and falling with shallow, angry breaths. He wanted to rip the smirk off his brother's face, to make him understand the gravity of the storm that was gathering around them. Viserys was dying, the realm was fracturing, and Luke was treating it all like a game.
He watched as Luke's smirk faltered slightly, a momentary flicker of doubt passing through his younger brother's eyes. But it was gone a second later, replaced by the same arrogant confidence that Daemon had spent months cultivating in him.
"At least I have a dragon that knows how to fly without crashing into the cliffs," Luke sneered, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "And at least I know how to keep a lady's interest."
Soft, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, cutting off Jace's angry reply. The heavy wooden door creaked open further, and Daemon Targaryen stepped into the chamber. His tall frame filled the doorway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light, his hand resting casually on the pommel of Dark Sister.
Luke immediately straightened, his posture turning respectful as he turned toward their stepfather. Jace, however, remained rigid, his eyes narrowing as he met Daemon's cold, calculating gaze.
"Save your fire for the Red Keep, boys," Daemon murmured, his voice smooth and dangerous. He walked into the room, his dark leather boots making no sound against the stone. He clapped a hand onto Luke's shoulder, a warm, paternal gesture that made Jace's stomach turn with a bitter jealousy.
"Your mother needs you in the lower courtyard, Lucerys," Daemon continued, his eyes never leaving Jace's face. "Go. Help her secure the dragons' gear. We must be ready to fly when the rain clears."
His younger brother nodded eagerly, shooting one last triumphant look at Jace before scurrying past their stepfather. The door remained open, the cold draft from the corridor spilling into the room, carrying the scent of damp earth and horses.
Daemon stood in the center of the chamber, his violet eyes assessing Jace with a quiet, mocking intensity. He reached out, his fingers tracing the spine of the Valyrian history book Jace had left on the trunk.
"You look tense, Jacaerys," Daemon remarked, his voice dripping with casual disdain. "A prince should look composed, especially one who bears such a... heavy burden."
"I am simply preparing for our grandfather's court," Jace replied, keeping his voice carefully leveled. He refused to let Daemon see how much the words stung, refused to show the weakness his stepfather so clearly despised.
"Good. Viserys is dying. The Hightowers are circling his bed like vultures, ready to tear our family apart the moment his breath stops," Daemon said, stepping closer. "They will smell the slightest scent of uncertainty. They will look at you, Jace, and they will see exactly what you are."
That word hung in the air, loaded and heavy. Daemon did not say the word 'bastard,' but it was there, written in the cold curve of his lips and the hard glint of his eyes. He was reminding Jace of his illegitimacy, of the fragile foundation upon which his entire future rested.
Daemon turned on his heel without waiting for an answer, his dark cloak swirling behind him. The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving Jace alone with the silence and the cold.
Solitude returned to the chamber, but it brought no peace. Jace finished packing with trembling hands, his mind racing with a mixture of anger and dread. He knew what they said about him behind closed doors, knew the whispers that followed him through the corridors of Dragonstone.
Jace walked down the winding stone stairs to the Great Hall, his boots echoing in the empty stairwell. He found his mother organizing the household's departure, her face pale and lined with the stress of her father's failing health.
He watched her from the shadows for a moment, seeing the way her hands trembled as she rolled up a parchment. Rhaenyra Targaryen was a princess, a mother, and a woman carrying the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders. Yet, as he looked at her, Jace felt a strange, cold distance opening between them.
Down in the hall, she waved the servants away and offered him a soft, tired smile. "Jace. Come here, my sweet boy."
Rhaenyra reached out, her cool fingers brushing his cheek. "You look as though you haven't slept a wink. You must rest before we sail. King's Landing will be a hornets' nest, and I need you at your best."
Her touch was gentle, but it felt suffocating. Jace looked into his mother's eyes, searching for some sign of the warmth he had known as a child, but he found only a desperate, frantic energy.
Seeing his hesitation, she sighed, her fingers dropping from his cheek. "Is there something wrong, Jace? You have been quiet all morning."
"Luke says Daemon has been training him separately," Jace said, choosing his words carefully. "He says I am too soft for what is coming. Is that what you think, Mother?"
"Daemon is... protective of our claim," Rhaenyra said, her eyes darting away for a brief second. "He wants your brothers to be ready. You are my heir, Jace. Your strength must be of a different kind. You must be the shield, not the sword."
"A weaker kind of strength," Jace muttered, the bitterness slipping through his carefully maintained armor.
"Do not say that," she whispered, her voice sharp with sudden panic. "Never say that. You are a prince. You must hold your head high, no matter what they whisper in the dark."
Before he could press further, a servant approached, bowing deeply to the princess. "Princess Baela requests your presence in the solar, Prince Jacaerys. She says it is a matter of great urgency."
Jace's heart did a strange, painful flutter. He looked at his mother, expecting her to say something, to offer some hint of what was to come, but Rhaenyra only looked away, her gaze fixing on the cold stone floor.
He realized then that she knew. His mother, the woman who had promised to protect him, was complicit in whatever Baela was about to do.
Rhaenyra only looked away, her gaze fixing on the cold stone floor. "Go to her, Jace. Listen to what she has to say. Remember who you are."
Cold dread settled deep in Jace's stomach as he walked towards the solar. Every step felt like dragging heavy iron chains, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
Every shadow seemed to stretch toward him, mocking his weakness. He pushed open the heavy oak door, his hand trembling on the iron latch.
He stepped into the room, and the door clicked shut behind him, sealing him inside.
Inside, the solar was warm, almost suffocatingly so. A fire of pinewood crackled in the hearth, sending thick, sweet smoke into the room that clawed at Jace's throat.
A heavy silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Baela stood by the high window, looking out at the grey, churning sea below.
Baela did not turn immediately. Her silver hair was braided tightly against her head, her posture rigid and unyielding, looking every bit the dragon princess she was.
Her dark eyes were calm and entirely devoid of the warmth they used to hold when she turned to face him. "Thank you for coming, Jace."
"Baela," Jace said, his voice barely a whisper. He wanted to reach out to her, to take her hand, but the cold distance in her eyes stopped him in his tracks.
She took a deep breath, her gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before locking back onto his face. "We need to speak about our future, Jace."
"Your letter was brief," he said, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "You said we needed to speak. Is something wrong?"
"I have petitioned your mother to break our betrothal," she said, her voice remaining perfectly level, as if she were discussing the price of grain.
Those words hit him like a physical blow. Jace froze, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, painful gasp that felt like breathing in glass.
Jace stared at her, waiting for her to laugh, waiting for her to say it was a cruel joke. But her face remained as cold and hard as the obsidian walls around them.
He felt the world tilting on its axis, the ground beneath his feet turning to dust. "What?"
"It is for the best, Jace," she said, her voice remaining perfectly level. "I have asked to marry Lucerys instead. We must secure Driftmark."
Jace felt a cold numbness spreading from his chest to his fingertips. He looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief.
"Secure Driftmark?" he repeated, the words tasting like ash. "You were betrothed to me. I am the heir to the Iron Throne. How does marrying my younger brother secure anything?"
"Luke will inherit Driftmark," she explained, her voice carrying a patronizing tone that made his blood boil. "My grandfather, Lord Corlys, wants his blood on the Driftwood Throne. By marrying Luke, I ensure that my family's legacy remains intact. It is a political necessity."
"And what of us?" Jace stepped closer, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "What of the promises we made in the gardens? What of the future we planned together?"
"Promises are a luxury for those who do not have a house to defend," she said coldly, her eyes narrowing slightly. "We must be practical, Jace. The realm is on the brink of war. We cannot afford to make decisions based on... childish feelings."
Baela did not flinch as he stepped closer. She stood her ground, her chin tilted upward in defiance, showing the fierce Targaryen pride that she had inherited from her father.
Jace looked past her, his eyes falling on the heavy mahogany desk. Sitting there, plain as day, was a fresh parchment bearing his mother's wax seal.
A red wax seal had been pressed into the bottom, bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Beside it was his mother's elegant signature, still fresh and dark.
His mother had already signed it. She had traded his happiness, his future, his dignity, just to secure Luke's claim to Driftmark. She had sacrificed her eldest son to appease the Velaryons.
She had given away his betrothed, the only person he thought he could trust, to the brother who mocked him. The realization felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest, suffocating him.
Rhaenyra had chosen Luke. Daemon had chosen Luke. And now, Baela had chosen Luke.
A dark, suffocating weight pressed down on Jace's chest. He felt as if the walls of the solar were closing in on him, trapping him in a nightmare from which he could not wake.
Sweet, heavy pinewood smoke filled his lungs, choking him, making it impossible to breathe. He wanted to scream, to tear the room apart, to demand why he was always the one who had to suffer.
He wanted to rip the parchment to shreds, to throw the ashes in his mother's face, to make them all feel the pain that was currently tearing his heart into cold fragments.
He wanted to let the fire in his blood consume them all. But he was Jacaerys Velaryon, the dutiful prince, and he could not scream.
Instead, he forced his lips to curve upward into a polite, hollow smile. It was a mask, a fragile shield against the world, but it was all he had left.
It was the mask of a prince who had lost everything but his pride.
"I see," Jace said, his voice surprisingly steady, though it felt as if it belonged to someone else entirely. "You have made your decision."
"You understand, then?" Baela asked, a faint flicker of relief passing through her eyes as she saw his smile.
"Of course," Jace replied, his smile widening slightly, a painful stretch of skin. "Duty must always come first. I would never stand in the way of securing Driftmark. Luke is... fortunate to have you."
He kept his hands behind his back, his nails digging so deeply into his palms that he felt the skin break, the warm trickle of blood wetting his fingers. He welcomed the pain; it was the only thing that felt real.
Baela nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable now that he wasn't fighting back. She had expected anger, tears, pleas, but she had not expected this cold, polite compliance.
"I am glad you are being reasonable about this, Jace," she said, moving toward the door. "It is for the good of the realm."
She stopped at the threshold, her hand resting on the heavy iron latch. The rain outside seemed to have stopped, leaving a heavy, oppressive silence in its wake.
Jace did not turn to watch her leave, keeping his gaze fixed on the flickering flames of the fireplace. He felt empty, a hollow shell of a prince, his heart shattered into cold, sharp fragments.
As Baela turned to leave, she drops a devastating truth: "It was never about Driftmark, Jace. Daemon said a prince with your... blood... could never hold a lady's respect."