The Vale, One Year Before the Dance of the Dragons

Snow dusted the peaks of the Vale like ash on a battlefield. From the sky, it looked serene—verdant valleys cradled by cold stone—but as Vermax circled above Runestone, Jacaerys Velaryon felt the chill in his bones. Not from the wind, but from the future whispering in his ear. War was coming. The court at King’s Landing reeked of ambition and rot. His grandsire, King Viserys, clung to breath and throne alike, and the Greens had already begun planting their banners in stone.

And now, Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, rogue, rider of Caraxes, and his stepfather, had flown north with him, teeth bared beneath a knowing smirk. Jacaerys had been briefed before they left Dragonstone, of course. This was not simply a courtesy visit to their Royce cousins. This was strategy—delicate and sharpened as Valyrian steel.

The path to securing the Vale lay not only in coin or promises, but in marriage.

More specifically—his own.

They landed with thunder and red wings, a storm of dragonfire on snow. Daemon dismounted like a king unbothered by ceremony, cloak billowing as if he wore prophecy itself. Jacaerys followed more cautiously, his own dragon trailing steam and smoke. Lords and ladies gathered with mixed awe and wariness. Runestone had not forgotten Rhea Royce, and though her grave lay beneath the keep, her legacy breathed in the stone.

And in her daughter.

Elara Royce. The Everglowing.

She stood beneath the portico, hair dark as storm-soaked earth, silver rings in her braids. Her eyes—sharp as broken moonlight—did not flinch when she met Jacaerys’s gaze. No curtsy. No smile. Only a nod, regal and wary.

“Prince Jacaerys,” she said, her voice smooth as riverstone. “You’ve flown far.”

“For good reason,” he returned, inclining his head. “The realm darkens. I’ve come seeking light.”

That earned him the barest tilt of her lips. Not a smile—approval, perhaps. Or interest.

Daemon, ever the tactician, made himself scarce after the initial introductions. He left them alone in the snow-dusted courtyard, a calculated absence. He had already told Jacaerys the truth on the flight north: The Lords of the Vale will rally to you if Elara chooses you. If she does not—well. You’ll have to win another war before the real one even begins.

And so, Jacaerys did what he rarely had to do at court—earn favor not with dragons or titles, but with honesty.

They walked the grounds. Talked of battles, of books, of the Vale’s fierce pride. Elara did not ask about Baela, though Jacaerys could feel the weight of her shadow between them. He answered questions not just about himself, but his mother—his intentions. And when he asked if Daemon still wrote to her, Elara looked to the mountains.

“Sometimes,” she said. “He never apologizes. But he signs every letter: Your father, still. I don’t know what I resent more—that he left, or that I still wait for the next one.”

Jacaerys said nothing at first. Then, gently, “He may never be what you needed, Elara. But I would like to be.”

A long silence. Wind in the trees. Ravens overhead.

And then—finally—she turned to him fully. “I don’t need a prince,” she said. “I need someone who won’t flinch when the skies burn. Someone who won’t ride away when winter comes.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that now. What happens when the crown weighs more than your honor?”

He stepped closer, hand still gloved but heart bare. “Then I hope you’ll be there to remind me who I swore to be.”

Elara studied him for a breath. Two. Three.

Then, with a voice soft but certain: “Very well, Prince Jacaerys. You’ve my ear. You may yet earn my hand.”

From the shadows of the keep, Daemon watched the exchange. His grin was slow, wolfish. Not for sentiment, but victory. The Vale would rise for his daughter’s husband—and so would half the mountain clans.

For now, the match was not made. But the dance had begun.

And high above, Vermax roared to the sky—an omen, or a promise.