The winter air of the North was still clinging to Jacaerys's cloak as he touched down on the jagged cliffs of Dragonstone. He had pushed the timeline significantly by securing Cregan Stark's loyalty so swiftly, but as he looked down at the courtyard, he realized that a true king doesn't just win wars—he builds an era.
He was only fourteen, yet his body felt like a finely tuned instrument of war. Every step he took on the volcanic stone felt deliberate. His Supernatural Senses picked up the rhythmic "clink-clink" of the castle blacksmith, a man named Tormud.
Jace didn't head to the Great Hall immediately. Instead, he detoured toward the armory. Tormud was a stout man, loyal but ordinary. Jace stood in the shadows of the forge, watching the man work. This was the moment to expand his web.
"The steel looks brittle, Tormud," Jace said, his voice cutting through the heat of the forge.
The blacksmith jumped, bowing low. "My Prince! It is the best we have, but the dragon-stone is hard to work with."
Jace stepped forward and placed a hand on the anvil. As he spoke to the man about the "technique" of folding steel, he allowed his Skill Sharing to flow. It was a silent, golden pulse. Suddenly, Tormud's eyes cleared. His hands, once calloused and clumsy, moved with a precision that bordered on the divine. He didn't know why, but he suddenly understood the molecular secrets of the metal.
"Try again," Jace whispered.
Within minutes, Tormud had forged a dagger that was thinner, lighter, and sharper than anything produced in King's Landing. The man looked at his hands in awe, then at Jace with a devotion that was now absolute. He would never know he was enhanced; he would only believe that the Prince's "advice" had unlocked his true potential.
"This is our secret, Tormud," Jace said. "Make enough for the personal guard. Tell no one."
Leaving the forge, Jace made his way to his mother's solar. He knew that the news of Luke's encounter at Storm's End was the catalyst for the war, but he had arrived back earlier than in the original history.
Rhaenyra was standing by the window, the sea breeze tossing her silver-gold hair. She turned as he entered, and the atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The tension of the coming war was there, but beneath it was the smoldering heat of their new bond.
"You are back sooner than expected," she said, her voice a mix of relief and regal poise.
"The North is ours, Mother. Cregan Stark is a man of his word, but I have ensured he is more than that. He is a brother in spirit now." Jace walked toward her, his Supernatural Senses noting the subtle flush on her neck.
He didn't touch her immediately. Instead, he began to discuss the "Kingdom Building" aspect of their strategy. He explained how they needed to revitalize the trade routes around the Gullet, how to use his "newly trained" scouts to intercept Green messengers, and how to fortify the Dragonpit.
"You sound like a man who has lived eighty years, Jace," Rhaenyra murmured, stepping closer.
"I have seen things in my dreams, Mother. I know the mistakes that were made in the past. I will not let you be a Queen of ashes."
He finally reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. The enhancement he had been feeding her was making her eyes glow with a fierce violet light. She felt stronger, faster, and more beautiful every day she spent near him.
"The lords are calling for a council," she whispered, her breath hitching as Jace's thumb brushed her lower lip. "Daemon wants to burn the Reach."
"Let Daemon play with fire," Jace replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate level. "We will play for the world. But first..."
He leaned down, his lips ghosting over hers. The politics of the Seven Kingdoms faded into the background as the fire in their blood took over. This was their ritual now—a way to bind the Queen and her King in a union that no law of man could sever.
But as they moved toward the bed, a sharp screech echoed from the cliffs outside. It was Syrax. The dragon was restless, sensing the shift in her rider's soul. Jace smiled against Rhaenyra's skin. Even the dragons knew that the world was changing.
He spent the next few hours teaching Rhaenyra more than just passion. Between their intense, smut-filled encounters—where Jace used his Skill Mastery to explore every facet of her pleasure—he would whisper secrets of statecraft and dragon-lore into her ear. He was shaping her into a weapon just as he had shaped Tormud's steel.
"When we go to King's Landing," Jace murmured as Rhaenyra lay exhausted and glowing in his arms, "they won't see a woman claiming a throne. They will see the return of Old Valyria itself."
Rhaenyra clung to him, her heart thumping against his chest. She didn't care about the whispers of the septons or the laws of the realm. She had her dragon, she had her son, and she had a power she was only beginning to understand.