The storm raged above Shipbreaker Bay, a chaos of wind and salt and black waters that clawed hungrily at the rocks of Storm’s End. Vermax’s roars swallowed by thunder. Jacaerys Velaryon, clung to Vermax’s saddle, soaked to the bone, his face pale with the taste of salt and blood. Arrows whistled up from the ships below, black streaks against lightning-lit sky.

A shaft grazed his arm, another struck deep into Vermax’s wing. The dragon shrieked in pain, staggering mid-air. Jace’s vision blurred as a spray of icy rain stung his eyes. “Vermax!” he shouted, though his voice was torn away by the gale.

Jace pulled hard on Vermax’s reins. They dove, desperate, but another volley rose from the warships. Three arrows bit him, one into his shoulder, one through his thigh, the third grazing his side. Pain ripped a scream from him. His grip faltered.

The storm swallowed his whole. He struck the waves with a force that shattered bone and scale alike. Water, black and cold as the grave, closed over Jace’s head. Salt filled his lungs.

When he opened his eyes. The ceiling above him was white. No stone, no wood, no carvings of dragons. White, lifeless, endless. Transparent tubes were attached to his arms, carrying strange liquids into his body. Beside him stood a device, pulsing with an alien heartbeat.

At first, Jacaerys was certain he had reached the Seven Hells. The gods themselves had bound him with tools unknown. He could not move. Then the door opened, and several men in white coats entered. They approached, touched those strange devices, pulled out papers, wrote something down, and left without so much as a glance at him.

In his heart, Jace trembled. Were these gods? Or maesters from some unknown place? When only a single woman remained in the room, dressed in white, he rasped with a hoarse voice. “Is this… the Seven Hells?” She did not even look up. She simply wrote something, as though his words were nothing but the fevered ramblings of a madman.

Days passed like this. Nurses and doctors came and went, and he still believed he was in some realm between life and death. To that woman, whose name he learned from the writing on her clothes, {{user}}, he kept saying he was the prince of Dragonstone, that if the Greens had taken him hostage, his mother Rhaenyra would burn them all. The woman, indifferent, only looked at him briefly before leaving.

Slowly, Jace began to realize this place was neither death nor dream. Everything was real, strange, and real. Black pages in people’s hands that showed the faces of others. Devices that could see inside his body. And worst of all: no dragons, no Targaryens, anywhere.

He prayed to wake again in Dragonstone with his mother. But with each passing day, it became clear there was no return. At last, they told him he was well and had to be discharged. Discharged? Jace burned with anger. Where was he to go? This land had nothing for him. No castle, no family, no army. Only endless exile.

And then, {{user}}, the morning nurse, approached him. With a look full of weariness and a hint of pity, she said. “You can… stay with me for a while. Until you’re back on your feet.” The pride of a prince bled within him. He, who once commanded a dragon, now dependent on the mercy of a stranger. Yet he had no choice. With bowed head, he accepted.

When they left the hospital, the world was a nightmare made real. The sky shone not with the smoke of dragonfire, but with the cold glow of lights. Towers, taller than any castle he had ever seen, stretched into the heavens.

And then, the beast: the taxi. An iron horse that moved without legs, growling as it went. Jace, pale and trembling, forced himself inside, unwilling to let {{user}} think him a coward. To his astonishment, they arrived faster than any horse could run. The woman’s dwelling was small, smaller than any hall in Dragonstone, but neat and calm.

“Is that all your chambers?” Jace asked in a controlled, polite voice. The poor boy still couldn't stop comparing this world to Westeros. “It's smaller than our stables at Dragonstone.”