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Rhaenys is astride Meleys, her mount’s high-pitched screeches are for the Greens gathered around this sham of a coronation. Their distinct sound reverberates off the crumbling, weakened walls and debris, washing over the small crowd of her treacherous, usurping kin. She can only stare into the fearful, teary eyes of her cousin’s widow and clutches her reins tighter.
Meleys anxiously, restlessly awaits her orders. The Red Queen can feel the steady pump of bloodlust in her rider’s heart. Grief is clutching at Rhaenys’ throat, rage is swimming in her veins, tremors overcome her.
They imprisoned her in her own family’s castle. They kept her from her dragon. They had defiled and descrecrated her cousin’s—her King’s body. They hadn’t expected her to escape, to find a way out of their barred doors as if a Princess of House Targaryen could be made a hostage in her own home.
Their new king makes a pathetic sight hiding his face in his mother’s neck. His cowardice reeks—more pungent than Meleys’ dragon scent. His wife is braver, fiercer than him. She doesn’t turn away even as her brother stands in front of her protectively and stares the two of them down with defiance–but the wariness Prince Aemond feels cannot be hidden behind an eyepatch.
Meleys roars again prompting the queen dowager to close her eyes and brace herself for the oncoming dragonfire Meleys is desperate to unleash upon them. Whereas her newly annointed son can barely stand to look at them. Her younger children can barely look away. She must make quite the sight in her red armor straddling the Red Queen’s saddle.
She looks like the queenship she was denied—denied by the men this dowager queen is determined to play footsoldier for.
Rhaenys considers Alicent and the tears gathering in the corner of her eyes. She stares the Greens down, her lips curling around the syllables of the command Meleys is anticipating.
As she’s about to turn Meleys around and make her exit, there is a recognizable sound approaching. She turns around, her hands tightening fitfully in her saddle’s reins.
It’s another dragon.
Her heart starts to race, pounding in her chest and she considers making a hasty retreat. But then she starts to think logically; all of the Greens’ dragonriders are in this crumbling, newly destroyed dome. So it cannot be Sunfyre, Vhagar or Dreamfyre. It can only be an escort or reinforcements.
Her instincts ring true. She recognizes the pear green hue of Vermax approaching and allows herself to relax even in her confusion.
Rhaenyra’s eldest son guides his young dragon into the partially destroyed dragonpit. The anxiety in the room increases tenfold. The Greens’ are at the mercy of two dragons even if Vermax is juvenile and nowhere near as large as theirs.
The size of the flames won't matter when they’re roasting you.
Jacaerys Velaryon looks fierce and resplendent in his black and garnet attire. The three-headed dragon adorned on his chest is deliberate and eye-catching—and befitting a Prince of House Targaryen. Even if he is not of her son Laenor’s blood; he is undeniably a Targaryen sitting atop his dragon.
He catches her gaze, his mouth grim then he inclines his head but he doesn’t land Vermax. He keeps them hovering; Daemon taught him well. “Grandmother. Is this your doing?” He gestures to the destroyed structure. His eyes are keen and he is quickly piecing together the puzzle.
She clenches her jaw but a flash of respect encompasses her. The Greens, in their arrogance and disdain for all things of Old Valyria, cannot understand High Valyrian. They may have the Valyrian features but their blood does not bleed red.
She nods once. “They would not let me leave, so I destroyed my prison.”
His eyes flash with anger. “And what of Grandfather?”
“Dead.” She hisses, her blood rushing to her cheeks in her ire. “Rotting in his bed like a peasant.”
She should’ve anticipated it—she should’ve noticed Jace arrived armed.
Jace quickly, with deadly efficiency launches an arrow that lodges itself in Otto Hightower’s throat—the Hand’s bloodied gurgles are obscured by Helaena’s screams and the dowager’s shrieks. He launches the next one into the chest of Ser Criston Cole, eliciting more screams and shouts from the kingsguard who are scurrying towards the injured Hand and then dispersing to aid their fellow kingsguard. The dowager queen rushes over to her father’s side, sobbing as he clutches his neck and chokes on his blood.
Meleys roars at the remaining approaching guards, frightening and chasing them away from her and Vermax.
Jace is thorough in his revenge in a way that would make the Conqueror proud—he aims two into Prince Aemond’s knees that’ll cripple him and keep him from mounting Vhagar in a pursuit of vengeance; a deliciously premeditated contingency plan that reeks of her cousin Daemon’s teachings. This young man—she can envision being king.
Lastly, he sends an arrow at Aegon’s head knocking off the Conqueror’s crown, sending the boy to his knees whimpering in terror and clutching at his head, checking for blood.
Jace’s actions send a clear message: you are a false king, you are nothing but a usurper.
“Stop!” The dowager queen screams, pleading. “Please!” She’s comforting her middle son as he yells in agony at the arrows sticking out of his kneecap and upper thigh, he’s cursing up a storm. “Get the maester!”
Jace lowers his bow, his eyes alight with satisfaction. “May you treat your grandfather with more respect and dignity than you did mine.”
Rhaenys’ heart is racing in her chest, her eyes scanning the carnage and she feels a sense of deep gratification burrowing in her gut. She bows her head respectfully at the young man, pride engulfing her heart.
He sends her a small smile, it’s almost bashful. How someone capable of such ruthlessness can become so shy before her is beyond comprehension. He then gestures for her to lead the way. She turns her beloved red mount around, slipping them through the gap in the doors with a shrieking Vermax following closely behind.
Aegon drunkenly laughs where he’s sat on the floor. He’s in disbelief. “He missed! Thank the gods he missed my head.”
“He didn’t miss you drunken idiot!” Aemond yells, grinding his teeth together as the maester tries to assess the damage. The blood is seeping into his trousers and they’re cutting away the material. “He wanted to send—ah! Fuck, watch what you’re doing you blithering imbecile!”
His mother tries to comfort him but Aemond shakes her off, clenching his fists tightly. He bites back a roar of pain. “Brother, you’re a fucking fool if you believe that bastard didn’t shoot exactly where he intended. He’s as good with a bow as I am with a sword. You just weren’t worth maiming.”
“Don’t speak such nonsense.” His mother whispers, her voice hoarse and eyes overflowing with tears. She can barely look at what remains of her father. “We should be thankful to the Seven for their protection.”
Aemond sneers to mask the agony he’s experiencing. Aegon is laughing around his next glass of wine. “The Strong boys sure love to use you for target practice, little brother. First, your eye and now your legs.”
Aemond’s overcome with such disgust and agony that he can’t stop the words that flow. “You should count yourself fortunate that boy is nothing but a bastard or else he would have the entire fucking realm backing his claim.”
Including me is left unsaid but the implication rings through the room amidst the chaos and dead bodies.
Rhaenys and Jace arrive on Dragonstone to a small crowd of their family waiting for them. There is palpable relief upon their faces when they see that they and their dragons are left relatively unharmed.
Baela and Rhaena quickly embrace their grandmother, crowding around her and soaking in the unique smell of her perfume and Meleys. Rhaenyra is embracing her son with Daemon patting his back while his eyes scan Vermax for signs of combat or injury.
“Grandfather’s dead.” Jace says, his voice hollow. “He’s been dead for days, Mother.”
The silence is deafening. Then there are gasps and murmurs. Daemon’s face is simultaneously afflicted with grief and fury. Rhaenyra is clutching her chest and shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears. Daemon wraps her arm around her waist, his palm touching their unborn child and hides his face in her hair, his breath shuddering.
Jace reaches for her as she begins to shake and he takes her hands gently, reassuring. “They defiled and desecrated him, Mother. They kept the news of his death from us so they could crown Aegon.” He entones bitterly and aghast then he looks over his shoulder at Rhaenys. “They were keeping Grandmother prisoner. They kept her from Meleys. I made sure they paid for it. For all of it.”
His mother’s teary eyes meet his own. “What have you done?”
He rolls his shoulders back and heeds her gaze but spares a look to his stepfather and his lips twitch with a smirk. “I cut off the head of the snake and crippled their enforcer.”
His mother is momentarily distracted from her grief as is his stepfather. They’re looking at him like they can hardly reconcile his words. He can see the cogs turning in their heads as they try to comprehend just what he’s implying.
“Otto Hightower is dead.” He tells them in High Valyrian. “As is Ser Criston.”
His mother gasps, her hand coming to cup her mouth. His stepfather regards him with shock that transitions to reverence. Jace can see the bloodlust encapsulating his eyes and smirks.
“You drew first blood.” His mother says having recovered from his revelation.
Jace’s nostrils flare. “No, Mother. What the Greens did to Grandfather is inexcusable and should be considered high treason. They defiled his body. They let him rot in his bed like a common pauper. Grandfather should have had a proper funeral with the Realm mourning and paying respects to their King as was his right and due. His ashes should be laid to rest here on Dragonstone. They disrespected him for their own gains. They used his death for sedition. That could not go unpunished.”
Daemon nuzzles his mother’s temple in an attempt to temper his growing rage. “I would have done the same, my love. I would have burned them all where they stood for desecrating my brother’s corpse. You would join on Syrax if not for your pregnancy.”
“You needn’t worry, Mother.” Jace leans forward to kiss his Mother’s forehead. “I took care of Aemond. He won’t be mounting Vhagar anytime soon.”
Daemon rips his face away from his mother and stares at his stepson’s face. His eyes are ablaze with understanding. “You… How?”
“An arrow to the knee can bring down any man, stepfather, except a dragonrider.” Jace muses with a smirk, gesturing with his chin to his bow and arrows strapped to his back. “Think of what two can do to both, even if they are attached to one as gifted with a sword as Aemond.”
His stepfather is emitting so much pride that it's stifling. He had diligently trained him and Luke for battle with swords, daggers and Jace’s famed bow and arrow, hand-to-hand, horseback and dragonback. This was his time and investment repaying tenfold.
“Let us reconvene inside.” Daemon says, clearing his throat. “There is much to discuss and even more to plan.”
Jace retracts his hands from his mother but she quickly takes them back. Her grip is strong and assured amidst her grief and her newfound resolve. She cups her eldest son’s face with gentle, reverent hands. There is love and pride brimming beneath her tears.
“You will make a fine king, my son.”
His heart flutters in his chest. Pride and satisfaction permeates throughout every inch of his body. “I will endeavor to be as fine a monarch as you, My Queen.”
When they are dismissed after supper, Jace crawls into his bed and feels the moment the adrenaline has left his body. He begins to shiver beneath the covers. He is overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions and sensensations coursing through his body.
He murmurs his gratitude to the gods for giving him the intuition to fly to King’s Landing to investigate his Grandmother’s strange absence and silence just as he murmurs pleas for forgiveness for the murders he committed. Just that morning, he had to implore his mother and stepfather that it was simple reconnaissance and that he wouldn’t engage or escalate beyond ascertaining his Grandmother’s whereabouts. He doesn’t regret his insistence.
That was until he discovered the depth of the Greens’ depravity and just how far they would go to usurp his mother.
The gods wouldn’t have given him that rush of restlessness and dread if they didn’t want him to discover the Greens’ plans and to deliver their judgment upon them. They wouldn’t have done this if they hadn’t wanted him to intervene. If they didn’t want him to deliver their just deserts.
When he’s breaking his fast with his family the next morning, his mother walks in and silently hands him a scroll that must have been delivered earlier that morning and takes a baby Viserys from him in exchange.
He unravels it and is appalled by what he finds. He tosses the raven on the table in disgust, sneering at the loosely rolled parchment that contains a single sentence, a mere three words in a fluid scrawl that turns his stomach.
I’m impressed, Nephew.
As if he wants the sick and twisted approval of his lunatic of an uncle, Aemond. This is meant to shake him, to get under his skin, to rattle him. Aemond will be stirring in his vengeance and it will motivate his recovery and when he’s healed, he’ll come for Jace ten-thousandfold.
However, the note speaks to a dark and feral part of him that revels in the victory, in having caught Aemond off guard, weaponless and vulnerable and took out both his legs. The Realm has been propagated with tales of Prince Aemond’s might and skill with a sword, how he’s this generation’s most skilled warrior. They will be aghast to learn he had been incapacitated by Rhaenyra Targaryen’s bastard son but they will soon whisper their reverence of Jace’s unmatched skill with a bow and arrow. It’s a glorious feeling.
He won’t become drunk on it though. He’s not going to be swept up in Aemond’s bloodthirsty games. If his stepfather couldn’t facilitate bloodlust in him then Aemond sure as hell couldn’t. He won’t allow himself to become the second-coming of Maegor the Cruel even if his stepfather would only laugh at the prospect and say he’s incapable of such cruelty.
Besides, Aemond probably despises the fact that Jace had drawn first blood and he hadn’t. He’s been foaming at the mouth for the opportunity for years.
But, he cannot deny that while Aemond appalls him; the warrior within Jace takes the praise as a sign of respect from a fellow, highly respected warrior, even one as morally compromised and hell-bent on making he and his brothers’ lives as miserable as his own. But he and Luke aren’t boys anymore. He’s not a child anymore and Aemond had to be reminded of just how dangerous Jacaerys Velaryon can be.
He has faith that his mother’s plans will come to fruition and she’ll soon be crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
But if they don’t, he’ll train even harder, more diligently to prepare for the inevitability of clashing with Aemond and fighting a war. However, Jace has something Aemond doesn’t: a legion watching his back and if push comes to shove, he’ll revel in taking out Aemond’s remaining eye.