The departure of Prince Lucerys had left a void in the halls of Dragonstone, one filled quickly by the cold, biting winds of the coming winter. While the Queen paced the high bridge of the castle, her mind focused on the South, Jacaerys immersed himself in the mechanics of war and the subtle art of deception.
Jace knew that to the world, he must remain the dutiful, incredibly talented son. He spent his mornings in the training yard, but now he shifted his focus. It wasn't enough to be a master swordsman; he needed to be a leader who inspired a terrifying level of loyalty. He began organizing "The Sea Guard," a specialized unit of young, agile fighters chosen from the household guards and the Velaryon fleet.
Under the guise of rigorous training and "new techniques" he claimed to have discovered in ancient scrolls, Jace began to apply his Skill Sharing. He would spar with them, his movements a blur of controlled power, and with every clash of steel, he passed on a fragment of his mastery. These men began to move with a synchronicity that was unnatural. Their senses sharpened; their fear diminished. To the Master-at-Arms, it was simply the Jacaerys effect—a young prince who worked his men harder than any commander in history.
"You move like a shadow, Prince Jace," one of the captains, Ser Steffon, remarked after a grueling session.
Jace offered a humble, weary smile—the perfect mask. "Hard work is the only magic we have, Ser Steffon. Steel doesn't care for bloodlines, only for the arm that swings it."
While the men saw a dedicated leader, Jace's Supernatural Senses were constantly scanning the horizon. He felt the shift in the air long before the messengers arrived. He knew the geography of the war better than anyone. He spent hours in the library, not just reading, but "adjusting" the maps of the Narrow Sea and the Crownlands, calculating flight paths and supply lines with a precision that would make the Triarchy envious.
Politics, however, required a softer touch. Jace began hosting small dinners for the lords of the Black Council who remained at Dragonstone. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak, he dropped small, insightful suggestions that seemed like lucky guesses or youthful intuition. He was subtly pushing them toward defensive maneuvers that would protect the Gullet, ensuring that even if King's Landing moved, Dragonstone would remain an impregnable fortress.
Rhaenyra watched him during these meetings. She saw the way the lords leaned in when Jace spoke. She felt the silent power he projected—a power that she alone truly shared in the dark hours of the night. But publicly, Jace remained the respectful heir, never overshadowing his mother, always deferring to her "wisdom."
One afternoon, Jace suggested a small tournament on the sands of Dragonstone. "To keep the men's spirits high, Mother," he told her in front of the council. "A show of strength to remind everyone that the Blacks are ready."
It was a brilliant move. It allowed Jace to display his "peak human" skills in a controlled environment. During the tilts, he unhorsed knights twice his age with such ease that it looked like natural talent. The lords cheered, and the common folk whispered of a new conqueror. None of them suspected that his strength was divine or that his every move was calculated to build the legend of Jacaerys the Strong—a legend that would soon be needed to hold the realm together.
As the tournament ended and the sun began to set, Jace felt a sudden, sharp prickling at the back of his neck. His Dragon Mastery hummed. Far to the south, the storm at Storm's End was reaching its peak. He felt a faint, distant echo of Arrax's fear, followed by a surge of the enhanced aggression he had planted in the dragon.
He didn't show any emotion. He stood next to Rhaenyra on the dais, applauding the final victor.
"The men are ready, Jace," Rhaenyra whispered, her hand briefly brushing his.
"They are, Mother," Jace replied, his voice calm. "But the world is about to change. We must be ready for the news that follows the storm."
He didn't tell her what was happening. He didn't tell her that her second son was currently fighting for his life in the clouds. He had to let the pieces fall. To intervene too openly would reveal his hand too early. He had to be the son who comforted her when the tragedy struck, the one who would then use that tragedy to fuel the fire that would burn the Greens to ashes.
That night, there was no intimacy. Jace spent the hours on the highest tower, his eyes fixed on the southern sky. He was waiting for the first sign of a dragon's wing in the moonlight. The silence of Dragonstone felt like a held breath, right before the first scream of war broke the peace forever.