Dragonstone, The Guest Chambers.
The wind on Dragonstone always carried the scent of sea salt and sulfur.
In a room on the west side of the castle, Jacaerys Velaryon stared at his reflection in a silver mirror.
He watched his own suppressed rage, staring back through his single eye. He loathed the name, Velaryon.
It was the name of the Sea Snake, the name of High Tide; a name others had forced upon him to serve as a cover for his true origin.
'I am a Targaryen', he whispered to the empty air.
His mother's words had echoed in his ears since his earliest memories:
"You are a Targaryen, my eldest son, Jacaerys. The blood of Aegon the Conqueror flows in your veins. One day, my life will reach its end, and you shall be crowned King."
But mirrors do not lie.
Brown hair, brown eyes, a pug nose. These features were nailed to his face like a curse.
At every court function or noble feast, he felt the weight of their gazes, probing, mocking, pitying. He could hear the words they left unsaid: Strong bastard.
'Die! All of you, die!! You cunts, go to hell!!!'
The memory of Vaemond Velaryon's old face resurfaced, the spittle flying from his mouth as he screamed "bastard" at the Iron Throne.
He saw Aemond's cold contempt as he called them "Strongs."
He heard Aegon's careless laughter and remembered Daeron calling him "One-Eye" at the feast at Storm's End.
Even Helaena... her gaze was gentle, yet so agonizingly distant.
And then there were the Hightowers, Otto, Alicent... the whole of the Green party.
'They deserve death. Usurpers. Thieves.'
They were stealing his mother's birthright and stealing everything that was rightfully his.
He was not a "Strong."
He had tamed Vermax; the young green dragon had answered his call. Dragons only answer to Targaryen blood.
That was an iron law, a rule set by the gods.
By what right did those arrogant, silver-haired, purple-eyed bastards question him? Simply because they looked the part?
How many insults had he swallowed over the years? He practiced his smiles, his etiquette, and the art of keeping his spine straight while people pointed fingers.
He had believed that by marrying Helaena, the King's daughter, a pure Targaryen, the whispers would vanish.
Their children would have the silver hair and purple eyes that would silence the rumors forever.
But now? The betrothal was cancelled.
His grandfather, Viserys I, had struck it down.
He and his brothers were being tossed back and forth like trash between the Targaryens and the Velaryons.
His dragon, Vermax, was being held captive in the Dragonpit of King's Landing.
He had become the laughingstock of Westeros: a delusional bastard whose marriage was rejected and who had now even lost his dragon.
No!
He would not be a joke. He would make them pay.
Everyone who had mocked him, questioned his blood, or stood with the Greens.
When the Blacks won this war, and their dragons turned the enemy armies to ash, he would silence those curs.
He would use fire and death to seal their mouths forever.
"My Lord."
A voice came from the door, soft and cautious.
Jacaerys turned his remaining eye toward the entrance.
Sara stood there, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight, her purple eyes deep in the shadows.
Behind her stood her two brothers, Valos and Mirax, equally silver-haired and violet-eyed, standing with military precision.
These were the bastards of Princess Saera...
He didn't know exactly where they had come from, but his mother, Rhaenyra, had taken them in.
And then... she had gifted them to him. To be his squires, to serve him.
Rhaenyra had noticed Jacaerys growing increasingly morose and dark, so she placed these three by his side, hoping their company would lift his spirits.
Jacaerys knew his mother meant well; she was the only relative who truly cared for him.
Sara was twenty-five, ten years his senior.
She had been a courtesan of some renown within the Black Walls of Volantis and knew every trick to please a man.
With her silver hair and purple eyes, she possessed the quintessential Targaryen look, the very thing Jacaerys could never have.
Looking into those purple eyes, he saw his own brown-haired reflection.
In that moment, he felt he was trampling something, defiling something. He wanted revenge against the high-and-mighty Greens.
The bloodline you cherish so much is nothing but a plaything to me.
"My Lord," Sara called again.
"You have been standing by the window for a long time. The sea breeze is cold; be careful not to catch a chill."
Jacaerys stared at her. This woman was a master at reading moods, a survival skill she had perfected in Volantis.
"Sara," Jacaerys said, his voice low.
"I have a great deal of 'fire' in me right now."
A brief pause followed.
Sara's expression did not flicker. She turned to look at her two brothers.
The men exchanged a look, silently exited the room, and pulled the heavy wooden door shut.
Once the footsteps faded down the hall, Sara returned to Jacaerys's side.
She didn't touch him immediately; instead, she unfastened the silver hairnet, letting her hair fall like a waterfall.
Was it hatred? Lust? Or some darker dependency he refused to admit to himself? He did not push her away.
Two Hours Later.
Jacaerys walked out of the room, his tunic buttoned with meticulous precision.
Sara followed behind him, her hair pinned back up, a faint flush on her cheeks.
Valos and Mirax were waiting at the corner of the corridor, their expressions as calm as if nothing had happened.
Jacaerys wondered if the brothers truly cared about their sister's situation, or if their struggle for survival in Volantis had taught them to treat everything as a tradable resource.
"I am going to see Lady Mysaria," Jacaerys said. "Follow me."
He descended the spiral stone stairs, his boots echoing hollowly.
The three bastards followed like cats. Jacaerys found himself wondering: if these three descendants of Saera were to tame dragons and take to the skies, would they remain this quiet, obedient, and deadly?
Mysaria's quarters were deep within the foundations of Dragonstone.
Originally a cellar for salted meats and wine casks, she had transformed it into the heart of the Black intelligence network after fleeing King's Landing.
When Jacaerys entered, he was met with a complex aroma of spices and herbs.
"Little Jace," Mysaria said, looking up.
She did not rise, nor did she use a formal title. This was her privilege as Prince Daemon's longtime paramour and as one of Rhaenyra's few female confidantes.
She was the "White Worm," the spymaster of the Blacks who had spent years operating in the capital.
"Lady Mysaria." Jacaerys stood firm.
The three behind him halted in the shadows of the doorway.
Mysaria's gaze flicked over the bastards. "The rest of you, out. Close the door."
Sara looked at Jacaerys. He nodded. The door shut, leaving the two of them alone.
"Sit."
Mysaria gestured to the chair across from her and poured a deep green liquid from a clay pot.
"Mint tea, with a bit of honey."
Jacaerys didn't touch the cup.
Mysaria, a woman in her thirties who still retained her charms, wore a plain dark grey dress, but around her neck hung a string of laughably cheap colored glass beads.
She wore them to remember the first patron she had ever served in the pleasure gardens of Lys, a reminder of exactly where she had crawled up from.
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