The air in the Great Hall of Dragonstone was thick with the scent of old stone and the nervous energy of war councils. Daemon Targaryen paced near the Painted Table, his hand resting on the pommel of Dark Sister. His eyes, usually filled with a chaotic fire, kept darting toward Jacaerys. The Prince stood at his mother's right hand, silent and still as a statue carved from dragonglass.
"Harrenhal is the key," Daemon declared, his voice echoing. "If we take the Riverlands, we split the Greens in two. I will fly Caraxes there by dawn."
Jace watched his step-father. Through his Supernatural Senses, he could see the slight fraying of Daemon's nerves. Daemon was a man of the old world—instinctive, violent, and prideful. He couldn't understand the invisible power radiating from Jace, but he felt it as a pressure on his chest, a primal warning that a new apex predator had entered his territory.
"A wise move, Uncle," Jace said, his voice smooth and devoid of the mockery Daemon expected. "The Riverlands are a quagmire. It will take a warrior of your reputation to bend them to my mother's will."
Rhaenyra sat on the throne of Dragonstone, her posture perfect, her skin glowing with the Peak Human health Jace had bestowed upon her. She looked at Daemon not with the longing of a wife, but with the cold calculation of a monarch. "Go then, Daemon. Secure the Blackwoods and the Strongs. We will remain here to fortify the Gullet."
Daemon narrowed his eyes at them both. He felt a distance between himself and Rhaenyra that hadn't been there weeks ago. It was as if they shared a secret language, a bond that excluded the rest of the world. But his pride forbade him from questioning it. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling like a wing.
That night, after the sounds of Caraxes's departure had faded into the distance, the castle grew quiet. Jace entered Rhaenyra's chambers without knocking. He found her standing by the hearth, her silken robe loose, her eyes fixed on the embers.
"He is gone," she whispered.
"He is," Jace replied, closing the door and locking it with a soft click. "And he will not return. He goes to find his ghost in the ruins of Harrenhal. Now, the hearth is ours alone."
He walked toward her, his presence filling the room like a physical weight. He didn't waste time with words. He reached out, his hands sliding inside her robe to grip the smooth, warm skin of her waist. Rhaenyra let out a soft moan, her head falling back against his shoulder. The enhancement he had given her made her every nerve ending scream for his touch.
He turned her around, his mouth finding the sensitive curve where her neck met her shoulder. Jace's Skill Mastery turned the act of lovemaking into a weaponized form of devotion. He lifted her easily, carrying her to the wide balcony overlooking the sea, where the moonlight bathed her radiant body in silver.
He knelt before her, his hands parting her thighs with a firm, possessive strength. Jace looked up at her, his violet eyes glowing in the dark. He began to eat her out with a slow, rhythmic intensity that was almost agonizing in its perfection. He used his Supernatural Senses to track the internal rise of her heat, his tongue swirling and flickering against her clitoris with a precision no mortal man could achieve. Rhaenyra gripped the stone railing, her knuckles white, her breath coming in jagged, high-pitched gasps as he drove her through wave after wave of climax.
When he finally rose to enter her, the friction was a spark in a powder keg. He took her standing against the balcony, his hands supporting her weight, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. The smut was visceral and raw; every movement was designed to remind her that he was her King, her creator, and her only true master. Rhaenyra wrapped her legs around his waist, her nails digging into the hard muscle of his back, her soul feeling as though it were being forged in the same white-hot blue fire as Vormax's breath.
In the quiet hours before dawn, they lay on the furs near the fire. Jace traced the lines of her palm, his mind already moving pieces across the map of Westeros.
"Luke will fly for Storm's End tomorrow," Jace said quietly. "I have done what I can for him. But the war must truly begin for the world to see what we have become."
Rhaenyra looked at him, her eyes clear and sharp. "And Aemond? He has the biggest dragon."
"Vormax is bigger," Jace replied, a cold smile touching his lips. "And Syrax is now faster than Sunfyre or Tessarion. We will let the children play their games for a while. Let the Greens think they have a chance. It will make their eventual destruction all the more absolute."
He leaned over her, kissing her deeply, the taste of her still on his lips. "Sleep now, my Queen. When you wake, the reign of the True Dragons begins."
Jace stood up and walked to the window. In the distance, hidden in the black clouds of the Dragonmont, he felt the resonance of Vormax. The dragon was growing stronger every hour, feeding on the divine energy Jace funneled into him. Soon, the world would see the shadow of the Golden Death, and on that day, the Iron Throne would be the least of their prizes.