The morning mist clung to the black cliffs of Dragonstone like a funeral shroud. Jacaerys stood on the lower ramparts, watching his younger brother Lucerys prepare Arrax for the flight to Storm's End. Luke looked small against the backdrop of the churning Narrow Sea, his face pale with the weight of the mission.
Jace approached him, the wind whipping his dark hair. He reached out, gripping Luke's forearm in a warrior's grasp. "Remember what I told you, Luke. You are a messenger, not a combatant. If the storm turns foul, or if you see the shadow of the Blue Queen's mount, do not hesitate. Rely on your instincts. They are sharper than you know."
As he spoke, Jace gave a final, silent pulse of enhancement to both Luke and Arrax. The dragon's eyes flared with a brief, supernatural gold light, its scales shimmering with a newfound density. Luke felt a strange, cold calm wash over him—the gift of his brother's Peak Human sharpening.
"I won't fail Mother, Jace," Luke promised.
"You won't," Jace said, his voice a low, heavy promise. He watched as Arrax took to the sky, the dragon's wings cutting through the air with a power that defied its size. Jace knew the tragedy that was supposed to happen. He knew Aemond would be there, fueled by years of resentment and the loss of his eye. But Jace had tipped the scales. If Aemond chose to hunt, he would find a prey that could bite back.
Once the dragon was a mere speck on the horizon, Jace turned and made his way to the Queen's solar.
Rhaenyra was dressed in black and red, her crown of Valyrian steel and rubies resting on the table before her. Since Daemon's departure, she had become a creature of pure, regal fire. The enhancement Jace had funneled into her was now visible in the way she carried herself—she moved with the effortless grace of a goddess, her presence commanding even the most cynical lords of the Black Council.
"The room is empty, Mother," Jace said, closing the door and letting his Supernatural Senses sweep the area for any eavesdroppers. "The lords are at their maps."
Rhaenyra turned, her eyes softening only for him. "My heart feels heavy, Jace. Sending Luke into the reach of the Baratheons... it feels like sending a lamb to the wolf."
"Luke is no lamb," Jace murmured, crossing the room to stand behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, his thumbs tracing the line of her collarbone. "And you are no longer a Queen who needs to fear wolves."
He turned her around, his hands sliding down to the small of her back, pulling her flush against his hard frame. The sexual tension between them was a living thing, a constant hum that underlined every conversation. Jace's Skill Mastery made every touch a provocation. He began to unfasten the heavy silver clasps of her bodice, his movements swift and sure.
He pushed the silk from her shoulders, letting it fall to her waist. Rhaenyra gasped as his hands, warm and possessive, covered her breasts. Her skin felt like heated velvet. Jace leaned down, his mouth finding hers in a deep, soul-consuming kiss. He tasted of dragon-smoke and iron.
He moved her toward the Great Table—the map of the Seven Kingdoms spread out beneath them. He lifted her onto the edge of the carved wood, his hands parting her thighs. Jace's focus was absolute. He knelt between her legs, his Supernatural Senses allowing him to hear the frantic skip of her heart and the rush of blood to her skin.
The intimacy was raw and intense. He ate her out right there, surrounded by the symbols of the kingdom they intended to conquer. He used his tongue with a divine, rhythmic precision, flicking against her clitoris and swirling deep within her until Rhaenyra was arched back, her fingers clawing at the Painted Table, her cries echoing in the high rafters. He didn't stop until she had climaxed three times, her body trembling with the Peak Human sensitivity he had gifted her.
When he finally entered her, the friction was explosive. He took her with a primal, unrelenting rhythm, the map of Westeros beneath them a silent witness to their union. Jace's supernatural stamina ensured that the act lasted until the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Every thrust was a declaration of ownership—not just of her body, but of the throne she represented. Rhaenyra wrapped her arms around his neck, her soul feeling as though it were being forged in the same white-hot fire as Vormax's breath.
In the quiet aftermath, they lay entwined on the furs near the hearth. Jace traced the Targaryen sigil on her crown with a bored indifference.
"Daemon will be at Harrenhal soon," Rhaenyra whispered, her voice husky. "He will start the fire in the Riverlands."
"Let him," Jace said, his eyes turning toward the window. The sky was darkening, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled over the sea. "The world is about to realize that the 'Strong' boys are anything but. And Aemond... Aemond will learn that when you take an eye from a dragon, the dragon grows two more to find you in the dark."
Jace stood up, his body glowing in the firelight. He felt a sudden, sharp resonance through his Dragon Mastery. Far to the south, the storm had broken. Arrax was screaming, but there was a new sound following it—a roar of defiance, not just fear.
"The war has truly begun, Mother," Jace said, his voice cold and prophetic. "And by the time the sun rises, the Greens will know that their 'King' is a corpse walking."