The war between the Blacks and the Greens had begun, and you remained on Dragonstone with your newborn daughter while your husband rode to battle.

It broke something inside you the day Jacaerys left.

He had kissed your brow, pressed a lingering touch to your daughter’s tiny fingers, and sworn he would return before she could walk. You watched him mount Vermax with a heart full of dread, hating the war that stole him from you more than you had ever hated anything.

At first, the ravens came often.

He wrote of cold camps and burning skies, of longing for Dragonstone’s winds and for you. He said he missed the sound of your laughter, that he dreamed of holding his daughter again. He promised he would be home soon.

But as the months dragged on, the letters thinned.

Then they stopped.

Nearly a year passed.

Your daughter grew from a fragile babe into a bright-eyed child who toddled through the halls, her silver hair catching the torchlight. She learned to say her first words. She laughed. She reached for a father who was not there.

He missed everything.

Then, one gray afternoon, you heard it.

The unmistakable beat of wings. The roar that echoed across the cliffs.

Vermax.

Your heart leapt painfully in your chest. You rushed from your chambers, skirts gathered in your fists, breath catching in your throat. He was back. He was finally back.

You burst into the courtyard, ready to throw yourself into his arms.

And froze.

Jace stood there, travel-worn and solemn.

And in his arms was a baby.

The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet.

He told you quietly—too quietly—that the child was his son. Born of a woman he had met during the war. A woman who had died days after giving birth.

He said the boy was innocent. His blood. His responsibility. He would raise the baby himself.

You said nothing.

There were no words large enough for the betrayal splitting your heart open.

The weeks that followed were suffocating.

You poured yourself into your daughter—her lessons, her laughter, her warmth. Jace kept his distance, as if sensing the storm inside you. He did not press you. Did not ask forgiveness.

But his son cried.

He cried constantly.

The nurses tried cow’s milk. Goat’s milk. They tried to breastfeed him but he rejected them again.

He rejected them all.

His wails filled the halls day and night, sharp and desperate. You were already exhausted from grief, from anger, from the ache of loving a man who had broken you. The sound scraped against your nerves until you thought you might shatter.

One night, after you had finally lulled your daughter to sleep, the crying began again.

You closed your eyes.

Enough.

You went to the nursery, dismissed the nurses, and took the boy into your arms. He was small. So small. Red-faced and trembling with hunger.

You sat by the fire.

Your hands shook as you loosened your gown.

You still had milk.

When you guided him to your breast, he latched instantly. The crying stopped as though it had never existed. He drank greedily, tiny fingers curling into the fabric at your side.

The room fell silent except for the crackle of flames.

You did not hear Jace enter.

He stood in the doorway, unmoving.

Watching.

Watching his wife—wounded, proud, heartbroken—feeding the child that proved his betrayal.

He said nothing.

But something in his expression changed.