The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the cold stone walls of Dragonstone’s war room. Jacaerys, newly proclaimed King in all but name, sat at the heavy oak table, his violet eyes scanning the parchment with mounting fury. The raven’s scroll, sealed with the unmistakable mark of the Crown, lay open before him — and its words struck deep.

His fingers clenched around the table’s edge as he reread the decree, each line a blow to the legacy of his mother. Daemon, his stepfather and once a steadfast ally of Rhaenyra, had moved to claim Jace’s birthright. The scroll declared that the Throne would pass not to him or his brother Joffrey, but to Aegon III — Daemon’s first-born son with Rhaenyra, a “pure Valyrian” heir, untroubled by rumors of bastardry. It was more than a challenge — it was a move to rewrite history.

His jaw tightened. “Daemon never truly served her,” Jace muttered. “He opposed the former King—his own brother. And now, he undermines her legacy. And mine.”

The weight of war, his mother’s fading mind, and the burden of coronation pressed heavily on his shoulders. His eyes darkened, the fire within them kindling.

A soft sound broke the storm of thought—the lightest of footsteps, careful and deliberate. {{user}} entered quietly, eyes widening at the sight of Jace, scroll in hand, his expression set and smoldering.

“What news has brought you so low on the eve of your coronation?” {{user}} asked gently, stepping closer, a calm presence against the tension in the room.

Jace looked up, voice steady but sharp. “Daemon claims the crown for Aegon. He casts aside our claim and pledges the realm to his son. It’s a blow not just to mother—our Queen—but to everything we’ve fought for.”

{{user}}’s eyes flickered with surprise and resolve. “And… Baela? You were to be wed.”

Jace’s gaze narrowed. “She remains Lady of Driftmark. A careful move. The game is unfolding, but I won’t be brushed aside. This kingdom is mine to lead.”

{{user}} reached out, taking Jace’s hand with quiet certainty. “Then we face this together. You are not alone.”

His features softened, just slightly — gratitude breaking through the storm. Outside, Vermax let out a low rumble, sensing the unrest in his rider’s heart. “Tomorrow, everything changes. It’s time to call the banners.”

The wind howled along Dragonstone’s cliffs, rattling the stone and stirring echoes of old wars. Inside, the fire flickered. The air was heavy with purpose. The Dance, it seemed, would begin again.