The narrow sea was a graveyard of mist and silence. While the rest of Dragonstone slept, Jacaerys stood upon the jagged peak of the Dragonmont, the wind howling around his ears. Beside him, the massive form of Vormax shifted, his black scales absorbing the moonlight. The dragon's white-hot blue fire crackled deep in its throat, a low rumble that Jace felt in his own bones.
He reached out, his hand resting on the dragon's snout. "The time for shadows is passing, Vormax. Soon, we fly."
Through his Dragon Mastery, he felt the beast's hunger. Vormax was no longer just a dragon; he was an extension of Jace's divine will. While the world feared Vhagar's size, they had no conception of the supernatural recovery and lethal speed Jace had cultivated in this monster.
Returning to the castle, Jace focused on his "Kingdom Building." He knew that a war of dragons was won on the ground as much as in the sky. He spent the next few days in the harbor, overseeing the Velaryon fleet. Using his Skill Sharing, he "touched" the master shipwrights and the navigators. Suddenly, the repairs on the warships moved at triple speed. The sailors found they could read the currents with a Peak Human intuition. The Gullet was becoming a noose around the throat of King's Landing, and the Greens didn't even realize the rope was being tightened.
At mid-day, Jace held a private meeting with Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake. The old lord was mourning the "death" of his son Laenor and the chaos of the realm, but when he looked at Jacaerys, he saw a steel that reminded him of the ancient conquerors.
"The blockade is holding, Prince Jace," Corlys said, leaning over the charts. "But the Triarchy... they are greedy. They might listen to the Hightowers."
"Let them listen, Grandsire," Jace said, his baritone voice echoing in the stone room. "If they sail, they will find the sea is made of fire. I have already positioned my 'Sea Guard' along the Stepstones. They are faster than any scout the Triarchy possesses."
Corlys looked at him, impressed. "You have a mind for logistics that defies your years, boy."
Jace offered a humble nod. "I simply learn from the best, My Lord."
As evening fell, Jace sought out Rhaenyra. The tragedy of Storm's End had settled into a cold, hard resolve within her. She was no longer the grieving mother; she was the Architect of Vengeance.
They met in the library, a room filled with the scent of old parchment and beeswax. Rhaenyra was studying the lineages of the Reach, her eyes sharp. When Jace entered, she didn't say a word. She simply walked to the door and bolted it.
The intimacy that followed was a quiet, possessive ritual. Jace didn't strip her immediately. He sat her on the edge of a heavy reading table and began to kiss her neck, his hands sliding up her thighs beneath her heavy skirts. The sexual tension was thick, a constant presence that they both needed to balance the weight of the crown.
He took her right there among the histories of their ancestors. Jace used his Skill Mastery to find the perfect rhythm, his mouth and hands working in tandem to pull gasps of pleasure from her. He entered her with a slow, deliberate strength, his Supernatural Senses allowing him to feel every flutter of her internal muscles as they tightened around him. Rhaenyra arched her back, her fingers digging into the ancient wood of the table, her head tossed back as she surrendered to the fire he ignited in her blood.
When the sun finally began to rise, painting the sea in shades of orange and violet, they stood together on the balcony.
"Daemon has taken Harrenhal," Rhaenyra said, her voice steady. "The messages arrived an hour ago. He calls it a 'bloodless' victory."
"It won't stay bloodless for long," Jace replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "But let him have his glory. We are building something here that will outlast any rogue prince's whims."
He pulled her closer, his hand resting on her stomach. He could feel the peak-human health he had gifted her, and his Supernatural Senses whispered of the future—of the children they would have, the true dragons who would never know the weakness of their predecessors.
"The Greens think they have won a point with Luke's retreat," Jace whispered. "They don't realize we have already won the board."
Suddenly, his Supernatural Senses spiked. A raven was approaching, but not from the south. It was from the west—the Westerlands were moving. The Lannisters were calling their banners.
Jace smiled, a cold, predatory expression. The Dance was growing louder, and he was the one holding the baton.