Three years passed in a blur of steel and salt. To the residents of Dragonstone, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had become something of a myth. At thirteen, he stood nearly as tall as a grown man, his frame packed with dense, functional muscle that his training masters attributed to his relentless work ethic. They had no idea that his Divine Dragon Blood was perfecting his physiology every second he breathed.
Jace moved through the castle with a silence that unnerved the older lords. His Supernatural Senses were now so finely tuned that he could hear the scratch of a quill three rooms away or the nervous sweat breaking on a servant's brow. He used this to master the politics of the castle, knowing exactly who was loyal and who harbored whispers of the Green cause from King's Landing.
His Skill Sharing had expanded into a silent, invisible network. He had "touched" his personal guard, his mother's handmaidens, and even the master of ships. These men and women were now the most efficient versions of themselves in the history of Westeros. The blacksmith produced blades that never dulled; the scouts could track a bird through a storm. Most importantly, their devotion to Jace was absolute, though they simply felt it as a profound sense of duty to the rightful heir.
Jace spent his nights in the high, jagged peaks of the Dragonmont. Vormax, formerly the Cannibal, had grown to a terrifying size. The dragon's scales were now like obsidian armor, shimmering with a faint gold undertone from the divine energy Jace funneled into him. Vormax was no longer just a wild beast; he was a supernatural titan. His white-hot blue flames could turn stone to liquid in heartbeats.
I am almost ready, Jace whispered into the dragon's ear, his hand stroking the warm, vibrating scales. The world thinks we are weak. They think my mother is vulnerable. They will learn the cost of that mistake.
While his power grew, Jace remained a shadow by Rhaenyra's side. He had spent these years subtly enhancing her, and the results were breathtaking. At thirty-one, Rhaenyra Targaryen looked more radiant than she had in her youth. Her skin glowed with a divine health, her eyes were sharper, and her command over the Black Council was absolute. She had become the Queen she was always meant to be, fueled by the invisible strength her son provided.
The bond between them had shifted. It was no longer just the love of a mother and son. Rhaenyra found herself seeking Jace's presence above all others. When he was in the room, the air felt charged, more vibrant. She found herself watching him in the training yard, admiring the predatory grace of his movements, feeling a pull in her chest that she couldn't—or wouldn't—explain.
As Jace approached his fourteenth name day, his physical presence became impossible to ignore. His voice had deepened into a rich, commanding baritone, and his gaze held a maturity that made even Daemon Targaryen hesitate.
One humid afternoon, the news arrived from the capital: King Viserys was failing. The end was near. Rhaenyra stood on the balcony of the Sea Dragon Tower, staring out at the darkening horizon.
The war is coming, Jace, she said, her voice trembling slightly. Alicent and her father... they will not let me take the throne. They will crown Aegon.
Jace stepped up behind her. He didn't keep the respectful distance a son usually would. He stood close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back. Through his Supernatural Senses, he could feel her heart racing.
Let them try, Mother, Jace said, his voice low and intimate. I have spent every waking moment preparing for this. I have built an army they cannot see. I have a dragon that would make Vhagar look like a hatchling. But most importantly... you have me.
Rhaenyra turned to face him, her breath hitching. Up close, Jace looked like a god of Old Valyria reborn. The boy was gone; in his place was a man who looked at her with an intensity that burned through her defenses.
Jacaerys... she whispered, her hand rising to touch his cheek.
Jace leaned into her hand, his eyes locking onto hers. He was fourteen now. The Divine Blood in his veins was screaming for the prize he had waited years to claim. He knew the laws of their house. He knew that Targaryens answered to no one but the gods and the fire.
I will be your King, Rhaenyra, he murmured, his face inches from hers. Not just your heir. Your protector. Your lover. Your everything.
The air between them crackled with the heat of a thousand dragons. The transition was no longer a secret of the mind; it was a fire in the blood. Jace didn't wait for her to answer. He knew her heart better than she did. He leaned down, and for the first time, his lips met hers—not as a son, but as a man claiming his destiny.