The clouds above Dragonstone loomed heavy and mournful, turning the sky into a canvas of ash and iron. Rain fell in sheets, not wild or merciless, but steady, persistent, like the tears of a god who no longer cared. The stone towers of the fortress seemed to drink the gloom, their black faces slick and gleaming, their parapets veiled in mist. Wind whispered through the carved mouths of gargoyles, carrying the scent of salt, smoke, and secrets.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Rhaenyra Targaryen and commander of her banners, stood at the high balcony of the western watchtower, where the storm lashed harder. His cloak whipped behind him, soaked and heavy. Below, the churning sea mirrored the unrest within. He was a dragon of the sky, forged in fire and duty, but that night, he felt only the weight of cold steel and colder silence.

He was married. Bound by vow and law to a woman he barely knew.

Lady {{user}} of House Dayne. The girl with frost in her eyes and silence in her marrow. She had walked into their wedding chamber with poise carved in ice, her beauty severe, untouched by warmth. There had been no softness in her lips, no tremor in her hands. She accepted his hand, spoken the Oaths.

The union had been strategic, orchestrated in the shadow of a war that gnawed through Westeros like a slow flame. The Dayne name had waned in recent generations, but its ancestral prestige still held weight. And their ancient sword, Dawn, still gleamed with the pale fire of legend. For Rhaenyra, the match was not about love, or even loyalty. It was a gesture. A signal. A balance.

But to Jace, it had become a question. Why was there no child?

Weeks passed. Then months. Battles were won and lost. Dragons bled fire across the sky. Jace led men through the Vale, into the mountains and back again, but each time he returned to Dragonstone, he found no new warmth in their bed. Only her, pale, distant, untouched by grief or desire. She sat by the fire, reading. She walked the halls alone. And sometimes, she vanished for hours.

The whispers began among the maids.

One storm-drenched evening, a crone in the kitchens muttered it aloud, without fear, without kindness: “Moon tea.”

Jace froze when he heard it. The words took root in his spine. He clenched his fists until the leather of his gloves creaked. That night, he did not go to the war council. He climbed the stairs of the eastern tower, one step at a time, as if walking to his own judgment.

{{user}} chamber door was ajar. The fire inside was low, casting shadows on the walls that danced like specters. And there she was, seated near the hearth, her silver-blonde hair loose down her back, a clay cup nestled between her palms.

Jacaerys stepped inside without a word.

{{user}} looked up, slowly. Their eyes met, “I thought,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, “that perhaps it was war keeping us childless. Or the gods. Or timing.” He took a breath that tasted of ash. “But it’s you. It’s you.”