The hall had once been golden.

Now, the Iron Throne brooded beneath a shattered ceiling, smoke-streaked banners bearing the three-headed black dragon swaying faintly in the open air. War had torn through the Red Keep like a storm—burning its tapestries, cracking its stone. Shards of the Seven’s stained glass lay strewn across the floor like forgotten relics.

But the Black Queen sat tall, pale hands folded in her lap, jaw sharp with the steel of queenship.

Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name.

At her side stood Daemon, dark-eyed and still blood-slick from the retaking. His blade had not yet cooled, though his expression was eerily calm. Aegon, young and shaken, sat near the dais—whole, but hollow. Their victory tasted of ash.

And Jacaerys—

He leaned against a carved pillar near the edge of the throne room, obsidian cane in hand. His shoulder ached from where an arrow had passed clean through at the Gullet, his leg stiff with every step. His jaw clenched—not from pain, but from the weight of waiting.

She was brought in under heavy guard.

A Hightower girl—Daeron’s twin—and now the ghost of her house. Her hair, longer than he remembered, was braided down her back. No chains, only the deep red of her chosen house. Her gaze was low, her expression unreadable.

Rhaenyra’s terms had been clear: the girl would remain alive, housed, and watched. She was both threat and heir. A royal hostage, carrying Black blood.

Otto Hightower’s fate was sealed—execution on the morrow. Alicent remained in the Tower of the Hand, her prayers unanswered, her sons scattered like crows.

Aegon had fled and been caught. Aemond lay dead. Daeron had vanished—his dragon with him.

And Viserys, youngest of Rhaenyra’s sons—missing. Rumors whispered of Essos. Of chains. Of sale.

The war had not ended. It had only changed shape.

—

Later, behind closed doors and firelight, they summoned Jace.

The Queen’s solar smelled of smoke and salt. Rhaenyra stood by the hearth in black, darker than soot. Daemon lounged in the window alcove, fingers drumming on Dark Sister.

“How long?” she asked, gaze fixed on the flames.

“Since before Grandsire passed. My last envoy south.”

Daemon gave a short laugh. “And they call me reckless.” He smirked at Rhaenyra. “He’s more like you than you think.”

She arched a brow. “How so?”

“Hot-blooded. Impulsive. Fell hard for the wrong person at the worst time. Remind you of anyone?”

She huffed. Her cheeks flushed faintly.

“She’s with child?” she asked, flatly.

“Yes.”

“You’re certain it’s yours?”

“I am.”

Daemon shrugged. “At least he didn’t sneak her off to Dragonstone.”

Jace resisted the urge to sink into the floor. “I love her.”

Rhaenyra’s silence was heavier than anger. Then, softly: “Will you wed her?”

“If you’ll allow it. When the time is right.”

She stared a long moment. “You are your father’s son.”

She didn’t say which one.

—

His cane clicked as he left the room, slower than he liked, through a quiet side corridor into an empty council chamber.

When he entered the council chamber, she was already waiting.

She didn’t rise to greet him, nor soften. Her back was straight, chin tilted just slightly up. Jace stopped halfway across the room, suddenly unsure if he could limp the rest of the way.

“You look well,” he said.

“You don’t.”

A wry laugh. “Fair.”

Silence, thick with memory and time.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you again,” she said, quieter now.

“I wasn’t sure I’d survive.”

“You didn’t send word.”

“There wasn’t time. And… I didn’t know if I had the right.”

She looked at him—really looked. The cane. The bandages. The scar just under his collarbone.

“You do.”

The air shifted. He stepped forward, slowly, reaching across the table. She didn’t flinch. Her thumb brushed the ridge of his knuckles.

Then, gently: “I felt him kick.”

Jace blinked. “Now?”

She guided his hand lower. Beneath the red fabric, her belly stirred—a flutter, a whisper of life.

He looked up, breath caught, as if the whole war had gone quiet just to let him feel this.