The skies above Dragonstone were iron and ash, streaked with the smoke of the mountain’s fires. Vermax’s wings beat steady against the wind, scales glinting as the sea heaved below. Jacaerys leaned forward in the saddle, one arm holding the woman pressed to his chest. Her cloak whipped about her, fur-lined against the bitter air, her hand clutching the harness tight. The storm was not only of weather, but of fate.

The towers of Dragonstone loomed, jagged and ancient, carved like beasts from the black rock. The cries of dragons echoed from their roosts, answering Vermax’s approach. By the time Jace brought his dragon down upon the landing terrace, a retinue had gathered: guards in black and red, banners snapping, the glow of torches casting the stone in firelight.

Daemon Targaryen stood at the front, hand resting on Dark Sister’s hilt, sharp-eyed as ever. Beside him, Rhaenyra — pale from grief but regal, her hair silver-white beneath her crown. Corlys Velaryon, sea-torn and stern, leaned upon his cane, his gaze unreadable.

The moment Vermax settled, Jace slid from the saddle, steadying his companion as she followed. The onlookers stiffened. The daughter of Stark’s blood was no courtly emissary, no maid of duty, but plainly a woman under his protection, heavy with his child. A ripple of murmurs stirred the air like sparks from a fire.

Daemon’s brow arched, a smirk tugging at his lips. He said nothing at first — but his silence was sharper than any jest.

Rhaenyra, however, did not wait. “Your brother is dead, Jacaerys,” she said, voice brittle as glass. “You were sent north to bring swords, not… distractions.” Her eyes flicked to the girl, then back to her son with a blaze of wounded authority.

“She is no distraction,” Jace said firmly, stepping forward, placing himself between their judgment and her. “She is mine. She carries my child. And as I swore to my uncle Stark, I will not turn from my duty — neither to crown nor to blood of my own making.”

The words fell heavy in the air. Duty. Love. Both intertwined, dangerous as wildfire.

Daemon’s smile widened, wolfish. “So the little prince returns not only with the wolves of the North, but one of their daughters at his side. How very bold.” He circled them with his gaze, like a hawk sizing prey. “Tell me, Jacaerys — did you think this secret could be hidden once war is won?”

“I think,” Jace said, his voice rising, “that a world already drowning in grief needs something more than ashes. My brother is dead, and his blood cries out. But this child —” he glanced back at her, hand brushing her arm — “this child is life. Hope. I will not deny it. I will not bury it in shame.”

The Sea Snake tilted his head, slow and deliberate. “Bold words, boy. The sea is filled with bastards unclaimed. Few princes stand before their mothers and kings and dare it aloud.”

Before Jace could answer, the sound of boots striking stone rang out. Baela Velaryon, hair wild from flight, entered the courtyard. She had always been fire where her sister was stillness, a storm in her own right. Her gaze swept over the gathered lords and ladies, then landed on Jacaerys — and lingered.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the faintest curve of a smile touched her lips, wry and knowing.

“Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “seems I’m not the only one who strays from the straight path.”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers again — scandalous, dangerous — but Jace’s shoulders eased, just slightly. If anyone could understand, perhaps it was Baela. Not forgiveness, not approval, but understanding.

Rhaenyra’s hands curled at her sides. “You shame your betrothal, your station, your very House—”

“I honor them,” Jace cut in, voice fierce. “I honor them with truth. You ask me to fight for the future, Mother. Well, here it stands. Flesh and blood. If war will take all else from us, then at least let me keep this.”

His words echoed into the storm-wrapped night. Around him, the court watched — some with shock, others with intrigue, still others with judgment sharp as blades. Daemon’s grin lingered.