Blood and Dragons || House of the Dragon Fic

Jace couldn't help but think he'd gotten a stroke of luck, considering the recent events. Not in regard to the fight, though—that was another story. No, what he considered fortunate was the timing of his injuries. The moment his mother and Helaena reached him, the pain flared up. They were furious, of course, but it came from a place of worry, and in their panic, they suspended whatever punishment they'd planned to rush him to the Grand Maester. Now, he lay in his room as the Maester carefully examined his wounds. Most were superficial, but there were enough deep ones to warrant concern.

"You are very lucky, Prince Jacaerys," Orwyle said, his voice carrying a hint of reprimand. "Another inch, and the dagger would've gone straight into your brain."

"I had it under control... mostly," Jace replied, trying to brush it off. The truth was, he'd baited Edwyn into trying to stab him in the head, and while his plan had worked, there were too many things that could've gone wrong. If he could go back, he wouldn't take that risk again, no matter how satisfying the outcome had been. The thrill of victory, the roar of the crowd—it was worth it, but only just.

The Maester grunted, as if unsatisfied with the answer, but continued. "Well, I've analyzed the poison that was used against you. It was indeed deadly, but it was slow-acting. It would've put you into a dreamless sleep before finally ending your life."

"Will I need an antidote?" Jace asked, his brow furrowing.

Orwyle shook his head, his expression unreadable. "No antidote is necessary. The poison should've taken effect long ago. The fact it hasn't suggests either the poison was of poor quality or... perhaps you did something during the fight?" His tone carried an accusatory edge.

Jace kept his face neutral. He wasn't about to admit that he had, in fact, neutralized the poison himself. Information like that was better left unsaid, especially when it came to matters of poison. "The gods must've been on my side," he said with a shrug, making it sound like divine intervention rather than a careful plan.

"So they must," Orwyle said, nodding slowly as he gathered his things. His work was nearly done. He'd stitched up the worst of the wounds and bandaged the others. "I recommend you stay in bed for the next few weeks. We wouldn't want your stitches to tear."

Jace leaned back against the pillows, the weight of his injuries suddenly making him feel much heavier than usual. "I'll manage," he replied, though he knew it wouldn't be easy. It wasn't just his injuries he had to worry about, the consequences from using the technique that Maegor had shown him had hit him full force and he was doing all he could to keep his eyes open at the moment.

"Now, I see no reason to keep your family waiting," Orwyle said with a small smile, grabbing his kit as he moved toward the door. Before he could reach for the handle, it flew open. His mother burst into the room, nearly toppling the poor Maester. Behind her streamed Helaena, Daella, his younger brothers, his father—and, to Jace's surprise, Daemon.

"How could you be so foolish?!" Rhaenyra's voice cracked as she stormed toward his bedside, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her hand raised as if to strike him, but the sight of her son lying pale and battered stayed her. She let her arm drop, but her voice sharpened as tears spilled down her cheeks.

"Do you have some kind of death wish?!" she demanded, trembling. "Are you only satisfied when you're throwing your life into danger?" Her words tumbled out in a rush, each syllable edged with pain. "I thought all this recklessness was behind you! Didn't you learn anything after that foolhardy journey to Valyria?!"

Her voice broke entirely, and she buried her face in her hands. "Must I lock you in the Maidenvault just to keep you safe from yourself?" she whispered, her anguish filling the room. "Tell me, Jacaerys—what am I supposed to do so you'll stop risking everything?"

Jace's chest tightened as he watched his mother dissolve into tears, flanked by the sorrowful faces of his family. Daella clung to Helaena, her face buried in her older sister's shoulder. Even Helaena, calm and composed as she often seemed, stared at him with red-rimmed eyes.

Laenor stepped forward, his voice steady but heavy with disappointment. "You worried us all, Jace," he said. "That man you faced was no mere opponent. He was an assassin—trained to kill, not fight. This wasn't some noble tourney."

Jace opened his mouth, but his father cut him off, his tone hardening. "So tell us—what in the Seven Hells possessed you to enter such a dangerous melee?"

Jace sat rigid on the bed, his fists clenched tightly in his lap. The words he longed to say felt like iron lodged in his throat. Couldn't they see? This was necessary. If he was ever going to be the king they needed, he couldn't stay the same fragile boy who had failed in Valyria.

"I did it because I wanted to improve," he said finally, his voice low. He kept his eyes on the bedclothes, unable to meet their gazes. "And I did improve."

"Look at your family when you speak," Daemon said sharply, breaking his silence. There was a small, amused smirk on his face as if he found the whole ordeal entertaining. Reluctantly, Jace raised his head, forcing himself to meet the shattered expressions around him.

Jace felt a wave of guilt wash over him as he looked into the eyes of those he'd hurt. "I'm sorry for worrying all of you, and I won't lie to you and say I had it under control, there were a few moments there where I believed I would die," he said in a low tone, though his words only caused Rhaenyra and Daella to weep more, even baby Joffrey started to cry.

"But I would do it again," Jace said firmly, the conviction in his voice silencing the room. Every pair of eyes snapped to him, the weight of his words shocking even those who knew him best.

"Jacaerys!" his father barked, his tone sharp with reproach. But Jace didn't flinch or lower his gaze.

"I will be King one day," Jace said, his voice rising. "And Crown Prince before that. I refuse to be a figurehead—a man who merely sits on the throne. I will fight in the wars that come. I will sit at every council meeting. I will expand and strengthen our family's kingdom." His words grew steadier, stronger. "But most importantly, I will not be ruled by fear or doubt."

His declaration was met with stunned silence, broken only by a soft, trembling voice.

"Why does that mean risking your life?" Daella asked, pulling her head from Helaena's shoulder. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red, but she forced herself to meet Jace's gaze. Her voice cracked with emotion. "Wasn't Valyria enough?" Her body quivered, memories of those harrowing days flashing behind her eyes. "You nearly died there, Jace. There were times where you were barely alive. I cared for you when you were... when you couldn't even wake up." She hesitated, her voice softening into a plea. "Can't you rest now? Enjoy your life for a little while? Why can't you wait for these burdens until you're older, when you're a man grown?"

Jace tightened his fists, his knuckles whitening as he drew a deep breath. "I failed in Valyria," he said, his voice low but steady. "It was my fault we ended up there. My fault so many died. I waited too long to act. I let myself be consumed by fear..." His voice faltered for a moment, his throat tightening as memories clawed their way to the surface.

But he forced himself to continue. He raised his eyes to meet his family's. "I won't stop," he said resolutely. "I will keep improving. I will push myself until I break—and then I will go further."

His family stared at him, stunned. They had expected the frightened excuses of a boy who had stumbled too far into danger. Instead, they were met with the unshakable resolve of someone far older than his years—a determination that unsettled them as much as it impressed them.

But for Rhaenyra, it wasn't enough. She felt the protective instincts of a mother surge to the surface, stronger than ever. The memory of nearly losing Jace in Valyria haunted her every waking moment. She opened her mouth to protest, to beg him to see reason—

But Daemon stepped forward, cutting her off. "This is an emotional time for everyone," he said smoothly, his voice calm but firm. "For now, it's best to let Jace rest. The Blood Melee has been postponed for a few days to allow everyone to recover."

You speak as though Jace will be participating," Laenor said, his tone direct, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on Daemon.

"He earned his place in the Blood Melee, through blood and sweat. To deprive him of the chance would be unjust," Daemon replied coolly, his smirk barely concealed.

"He will not participate," Rhaenyra cut in sharply, her voice brooking no argument.

"I will," Jace countered, his tone sharp as a blade. His jaw set, and his eyes burned with defiance. He had labored tirelessly for this, and he would not be caged by their fears.

"You will—" Rhaenyra began, but Jace cut her off.

"I have bled for this opportunity. I have toiled until my body gave out. Deny me now, and you will earn nothing but my contempt," he said, his voice carrying an edge that drew a gasp from Daella and a stern reprimand from Laenor.

Chaos followed, voices rising, accusations flying. Yet as the argument grew, Helaena stepped forward, silent and steady, her gaze fixed on Jace. Her red-rimmed eyes, unblinking, bore into him, and for the first time since the melee, he felt a flicker of unease. She stepped closer, leaned in, and whispered softly in his ear.

His family watched, their voices faltering as her quiet words reached him. She pulled back after a mere moment, and Jace's expression shifted. Annoyance flickered briefly, but it did not last. He exhaled heavily, nodded, and spoke, his tone subdued.

"I will not participate in the Blood Melee."

Stunned silence filled the room. Jace's family stared at him, disbelief etched into their faces. He had always been stubborn, unyielding even in the face of reason. Yet here he was, acquiescing with little more than a whispered exchange.

"If you don't mind," Jace said softly, his voice tinged with fatigue, "I would like to rest now."

Rhaenyra moved to his bedside, her hand brushing over his cheek. "This is for the best," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his brow. His brothers followed, one by one, with Luke clinging to him tightly. Daella's hug was fierce, her arms trembling as though she feared to let him go. They left the room, their footsteps retreating down the hall, all except Helaena. She lingered, her gaze unreadable as she moved closer.

"I am angry with you," she said plainly, her voice soft but firm as she settled onto the bed beside him. "But I am glad you are alive."

"I am sorry to have worried you," Jace replied, his hand reaching for hers.

"As you should be," she said, though she did not pull away. Instead, she brought his hand to her cheek, her touch warm against his calloused palm. Slowly, she moved onto the bed and leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

"One day, we shall be wed," she whispered, her breath brushing his neck, sending a shiver down his spine.

"I will be your wife, Jace. I will stand by you in all things. But know this—I will not allow you to die before your time. You shall live to be old and grey, to see your children and grandchildren. We shall live a long life together." With every word, her grip on him tightened, her body pressing against his until there was no space between them.

Jace let out a sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing. He had not realized how much he craved her presence, her warmth. "I promise," he said softly, his hand drifting through her silver hair. "I will not leave you. You are bound to me, now and always."

Helaena's eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she smiled faintly. "Jace... I love you," she whispered.

Her words struck him like a blow, his heart pounding in his chest. Though unspoken until now, he had always known it—but to hear it aloud filled him with a strange, overwhelming relief. "I love you too," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She leaned forward then, her lips brushing his, soft and tasting faintly of strawberries. A tingle spread through him as the kiss deepened, warmth flooding every inch of his body. For a moment, he wished time would stop, that they could remain in this perfect stillness.

But Helaena pulled back, her cheeks flushed, her breath uneven. "Rest well," she murmured, rising from the bed. "And come to the feast tonight."

She left the room swiftly, leaving Jace alone with his thoughts. His lips still tingled, and beneath the blankets, his body betrayed the lingering effects of her touch. Closing his eyes, he prayed his dreams would be filled with her—and with the taste of strawberries.

————————————————————-

Daemon made his way to the courtyard, where his sharp gaze fell upon his two nephews sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. The boys wasted no time resuming their training, seemingly inspired—or perhaps intimidated—by Jace's performance at the Melee. Yet, as Daemon watched, it became apparent that neither would ever match the raw talent their cousin possessed.

Settling himself onto a bench, he lazily beckoned a serving girl for a drink, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he observed Aegon flounder about like a fish on dry land. The slight crease of frustration on Ser Criston's otherwise stoic face only added to the amusement. Aemond, at least, showed some promise. With time, the boy might grow into a respectable swordsman, though still leagues below Daemon himself. Aegon, on the other hand, would likely excel only in drinking and whoring—hardly a surprise.

Daemon's attention shifted to Ser Criston. The man wielded a sword well enough, though he truly shone with a Morningstar. A worthy opponent in tournaments, he'd bested Daemon more than once, though his fatal flaw was always his hatred for Rhaenyra. Daemon nearly chuckled, recalling the tale his niece had told him—the gall of Criston to ask the heir to the Iron Throne to abandon her claim and follow him to Essos as a mercenary's wife. The sheer absurdity of it was enough to make Daemon laugh even now.

This was why he adored King's Landing. The city teemed with chaos, much of it of his own family's making. Problems that could have been solved with a word instead blossomed into crises. It was entertaining, certainly, and it kept his mind occupied, away from...

His smile faltered. Thoughts of his wife on Dragonstone crept in, dragging with them the haunting memories of Valyria. The Fyreworm, the gargantuan corpse of a dragon, and the creature masquerading as a man—it all rushed back with vivid clarity. That being had toyed with him, its claws tearing through steel as if it were parchment. He shuddered, gripping his cup tighter.

"What were you doing back there?"

The sharp voice broke through his thoughts. Turning, Daemon found himself face-to-face with his niece, Rhaenyra, her expression carved from stone.

"Whatever do you mean, my beautiful niece?" Daemon replied smoothly, a roguish smile curling his lips.

Her displeasure deepened, her eyes narrowing. "Encouraging Jace to enter the Blood Melee," she said, her voice taut with anger. "What possessed you to do such a thing?"

Daemon shrugged, raising his cup in a careless gesture. "Jace has trained hard under me and Ser Edryck. He deserved the choice."

"Jace was poisoned, and grievously injured," Rhaenyra snapped, her voice barely restrained, though anger simmered beneath each word. "Yet you saw fit to try throw him into a ring filled with brutes and beasts. What madness drives you, uncle?"

Her words struck sharp, but Daemon only took another sip of his drink, unbothered by her ire. "I know you uncle, you would not have done this for no reason, nor would you seek to place Jace in any undue danger, so speak of your hidden agenda before I loser my temper," Rhaenyra said as she gripped the back of his chair tightly.

Daemon leaned back, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "I have no agenda but what's best for Jace. Did I not prove that when I went to Valyria to save him?" he asked, his tone as smooth as silk.

Rhaenyra's lips tightened. The words were frustratingly irrefutable—Daemon had risked life and limb to retrieve her son from the clutches of that accursed land. But she knew him too well to take his declaration at face value. There was always more lurking beneath his silvered words.

"If you ever act against my son," she whispered, venom lacing her tone, "I will see to it you never set foot upon Westerosi shores again." Her threat hung in the air, sharp and cold, before she turned and swept away, her composure barely intact.

Daemon remained where he was, casually sipping his drink, her warning lingering in his mind but failing to rattle him. She was right, of course—he did have an agenda. How could he not? Jace was no ordinary boy; he was a force of nature. The lad had killed a trained assassin at only eleven name days. If that was what he could achieve as a boy, who could say what heights he might reach as a man?

Yet Rhaenyra, like many, chose to ignore the obvious. Westeros had not grown any more accepting of the idea of a woman on the Iron Throne, no matter how much she clung to her claim. Even with Jace as her heir, the storm clouds of discontent loomed. The Hightowers were moving their pieces, forging alliances with promises whispered behind closed doors.

Daemon had no doubt what those promises were: Aegon would sit the throne.

He would not see his family brought low, not by the likes of Otto Hightower and certainly not with a whoring drunkard like Aegon as king. Yet Rhaenyra herself was far from the ideal ruler. Her temper, her grudges, her unyielding nature—Daemon saw shades of Maegor the Cruel, not Jaehaerys the Conciliator, in his niece. A harsh truth, but one he could not ignore.

Jace, though—Jace was different. He was the best of them. A true blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, like the Conqueror himself. A prodigy with a blade, a keen mind waiting to be sharpened. He could be a king the likes of which Westeros had never seen, a ruler to eclipse even Aegon or Jaehaerys. But not if the women in his life continued to smother him in the name of protection.

Daemon had seen it clearly during the melee: the boy had it, that unrelenting fire. The people of King's Landing were already whispering his name, calling him the warrior reborn. That fire needed to be stoked, not doused.

In truth, Daemon had known Jace wouldn't be allowed to fight in the Blood Melee. The women in his life would see to that, and rightly so—Daemon himself would have barred it, given the boy's recent injuries. But it was a calculated move. By pushing for something as dangerous as the melee, Daemon ensured that when Jace turned his sights on something less perilous but equally prestigious—a joust, for instance—Rhaenyra would have no reasonable grounds to forbid it.

And Jace would continue to grow, to rise, to prove himself.

Daemon took another sip, the faintest smile playing on his lips. He wanted to see more, to see just how far Jace could go. How high could he soar before the world realized they stood before a king unmatched? Only time would tell, but Daemon had every intention of ensuring the boy's fire never burned out.

————————————————————-

"Come on, little prince. You're the guest of honor tonight," Edryck called over his shoulder, striding confidently ahead. Jace limped behind, his body aching but his pride unwilling to falter. The hours of rest had done little to dull the soreness that clung to him, but it had been enough to allow him to walk without collapsing. Earlier, a pair of serving girls—barely older than he was—had come to bathe him. They'd scrubbed him down and dressed him in fine black and red, their eyes lingering a little too long on his body, giggling behind their hands when they thought he wasn't paying attention.

"Stand tall, Prince Jacaerys," a voice came from behind. He turned to see Ser Erryk, his ever-watchful shadow. "You've won a great victory today. Don't let them see you weak," the Kingsguard said firmly.

Jace nodded, inhaling deeply to steady himself. He forced his back straight, biting down on the pain that flared in his muscles with every step.

"Good lad," Edryck said, clapping him on the shoulder with a broad, approving grin. The older knight couldn't help but feel pride. Jace might have only been under his tutelage for a short while, but the boy had surpassed every expectation. He'd bled for his victory today, proving himself a man in the eyes of the realm.

By the time they reached the Great Hall, Jace was moving with purpose, though every step sent a dull throb through his legs. Edryck and Erryk pulled the doors wide, revealing the packed hall beyond. Laughter and chatter filled the room until the first head turned to see who had entered.

It started with a whisper, then a ripple, until every lord and lady turned their eyes toward him.

Jace walked down the center aisle, his head held high, shoulders squared. The room erupted into a thunderous roar, a cacophony of applause and cheers that made the rafters shake. The sound wasn't the hollow courtesy reserved for a prince by birth—it was raw, guttural respect, the kind of reverence a warrior earned with his blood.

The women watched him too, their eyes dark and lingering. Some whispered to one another behind their hands, their gazes roving over the curve of his shoulders and the tautness of his chest beneath his fine doublet. Jace had grown into his body in the last year, and they saw it now.

One lady, her bodice straining against the curve of her breasts, bit her lip as her gaze trailed from his face to the sword at his hip. A bold one leaned over to whisper something crude into her friend's ear, and they both broke into hushed laughter, their eyes never leaving him. Jace caught fragments as he passed. "Strong hands... wouldn't mind him pinning me down... gods, what I'd let him do."

He felt heat rise to his cheeks but kept his gaze fixed ahead, refusing to let their words rattle him. Still, he couldn't ignore the way they looked at him now—like he was something to be devoured.

As he approached the royal dais, the applause swelled louder. Lords raised their goblets, shouting his name. Women leaned forward, their eyes drinking him in. Jace met their gazes only briefly, his expression composed, but inwardly he felt the fire of their attention. 'This respect isn't given. It's earned,' he thought, a flicker of satisfaction burning beneath the weight of his exhaustion. He mounted the steps to join his family, the roar of the crowd still ringing in his ears.

As Jace ascended the steps to the royal dais, he halted before the long table where King Viserys sat, the Queen at his side. His heart thudded in his chest; he knew this was the moment he would face the consequences of his actions. Bowing his head, he spoke with careful respect. "Grandfather."

Viserys rose slowly to his feet, raising a hand to command silence from the hall. The room, alive with chatter and applause mere moments ago, fell into a tense hush.

"Prince Jacaerys," the King began, his voice steady and weighty, "there are many things I could say to you... not least of which is how utterly reckless it was for you to join a melee at your age." His tone carried the weight of stern reproach, and Jace braced himself.

"But," Viserys continued, a small smile tugging at his lips as he glanced toward Rhaenyra, "I trust the Princess has already spoken her mind on the matter." A ripple of knowing chuckles spread through the hall, though Rhaenyra's tight-lipped expression suggested her ire had hardly lessened.

The King's face turned serious once more, and the crowd leaned in, eager to hear his judgment. "So, I will say this."

Jace felt the weight of the room's attention pressing on him, his breath shallow as he awaited the verdict.

"Well done, Prince Jacaerys," Viserys declared, his voice swelling with pride. "Well done on your victory, and thank you for providing what is likely to be one of the most thrilling displays of combat I have witnessed in all my years."

The hall erupted in applause, a thunderous ovation that shook the air. The King clapped first, followed by the Queen, and then the rest of the gathered lords and ladies. Even the sternest faces among them were softened with approval. Jace bowed his head, his chest swelling with a mixture of pride and relief.

But the applause dwindled as Viserys raised his hand once more, his tone sharpening. "However," he began, his gaze hardening, "as King, it is my duty to be just. In accordance with your mother's wishes, you are hereby banned from entering the Blood Melee. Any attempt to do so will result in immediate disqualification and confinement to the Maidenvault."

The finality of the decree silenced the crowd, and Jace bowed deeply once again, accepting the ruling without argument. He had expected this. In truth, he had no intention of joining the Blood Melee, not after what Helaena had whispered to him in the aftermath of his victory. Her words haunted him still. 'If you attempt to enter, I will join the melee myself.' The resolve in her voice had left no room for doubt. She would have done it, and the mere thought of her in such danger had shaken him to his core.

After the King returned to his seat, Jace moved to take his place at the table, but before he could sit, Daemon rose and intercepted him. With a hand on Jace's shoulder, the Prince turned to address the hall, his voice carrying above the low hum of the feast.

"Everyone here bore witness to my nephew's display today, did they not?" he began, his tone light. The hall erupted into cheers, lords and ladies raising their cups in acknowledgment. Daemon smiled thinly, savoring the moment.

"How many of you can claim that your sons, or even yourselves, could have achieved the same at a mere eleven name days?" he continued, scanning the crowd. The silence that followed was telling. A few lords shifted uncomfortably, and others avoided his gaze altogether.

"I do not say this to boast," Daemon said, spreading his hands in mock humility, though his grin betrayed him. "Nor to glorify my family's name—though it deserves glorifying." A ripple of chuckles passed through the hall at that. "No, I say this because I want you all to bear witness to what is about to take place."

Without another word, Daemon drew Dark Sister, its polished blade catching the light of the torches. "Jacaerys," he said, his voice steady, "kneel."

Jace hesitated for a moment, caught off guard, but quickly sank to one knee. The crowd grew quiet, their murmurs fading into nothing. Daemon's expression turned solemn as he rested the sword on Jace's shoulder.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.

In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.

In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.

In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women."

The hall seemed to hold its breath as Daemon lifted the blade and tapped it lightly on Jace's other shoulder.

"Arise, Ser Jacaerys Velaryon, Knight of the Six Kingdoms," Daemon finished, stepping back.

Jace rose to his feet, his face a careful mask, though a flicker of awe danced in his eyes. The hall erupted into thunderous applause. Lords and ladies stood, banging fists on tables in a rare display of unity. Even Viserys, beaming with pride, joined the ovation.

Daemon raised his voice above the noise. "You have all borne witness this day. None can deny the Prince's achievement, nor the honor that has been bestowed upon him!"

As the cheers ebbed, Daemon leaned closer to Jace, speaking low enough for only him to hear. "You're a knight now, nephew. That means responsibilities—but also opportunities. For one, you can now enter certain jousts without the need for a sponsor."

Jace nodded, his expression a mix of pride and determination.

Daemon turned back to the crowd, raising a hand to reclaim their attention. "And while it is a pity my nephew cannot participate in the Blood Melee—his injuries are too grave, after all—let it be known that Ser Jacaerys Velaryon will take the field in the jousts to come!"

The hall roared again, cups raised high.

Rhaenyra's expression darkened as she gripped the arms of her chair tightly, her knuckles white. Daemon, unbothered, clapped Jace on the shoulder and guided him back to the table. The feast resumed with renewed energy, the hall alive with talk of the melee, the jousts, and the young knight who had stolen the day.

Jace took his seat beside Helaena, who offered him a quiet smile, her eyes filled with something he couldn't quite place. Across the table, Daemon settled in next to Rhaenyra, her sharp glare boring into him. Whatever exchange passed between them was lost beneath the clamor of the feast, but Daemon's smirk remained unshaken.

Jace picked at his food while listening to his brother, who was animatedly recounting a story from earlier in the day. Though he nodded occasionally, his mind wandered, his unease growing. Helaena sat quietly beside him, and every so often, he felt her gaze on him. Under the table, Jace hesitated for a moment before reaching out and brushing his hand against her leg. She turned to him, her lips curling into a gentle smile.

"Is everything all right?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise of the hall.

Helaena nodded. "Yes, I'm fine," she replied, her tone soft and reassuring. She shifted slightly and slipped her hand under the table, clasping his. "I'm happy for you, Jace. Don't worry."

Jace studied her face, his unease momentarily easing at the warmth in her expression. "I thought you might try to talk me out of joining the joust," he admitted, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

Helaena tilted her head, her silver-blonde hair catching the flickering torchlight. Her violet eyes held an unspoken depth of affection, so clear that Jace almost felt self-conscious under her gaze. "I told you I would support you in all things, and I meant it," she said firmly. "While I do worry for you, a joust is far less dangerous than the Blood Melee. You'll find no argument from me." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze before withdrawing it.

Relief swept over Jace like a warm tide. He returned her smile and nodded, feeling steadier now. He focused on his meal and let the rest of the evening unfold without the weight of doubt pressing on him.

As the feast wore on, Jace found himself engaging with others more easily. He laughed at something Helaena said, spoke with friends who crowded around him, and even exchanged pleasantries with the sons and daughters of various lords. They peppered him with questions about the melee, their curiosity unending. "How did you manage to fight so many men?" one boy asked in awe. "Didn't it hurt when you fell?" a girl added, her wide eyes betraying both fascination and concern.

Jace answered them patiently, though some of their admiration felt strange to him. He wasn't used to being the center of attention for his deeds rather than his title. Still, their enthusiasm was infectious, and by the time he finally excused himself, he felt lighter than he had in days.

Back in his chambers, exhaustion hit him like a wave. He barely managed to remove his boots before collapsing onto his bed, the day's events replaying in his mind. As he closed his eyes, a single thought struck him like a thorn in his side.

He had no idea how to joust.

...

After closing his eyes, Jace expected to find himself standing before Maegor in the familiar dream world that had become his nightly torment. Instead, he felt a violent shift. Instead of rising, he was falling—plummeting fast and uncontrollably. His arms flailed as the wind roared in his ears, and he braced himself for the impact. But when he hit the ground, it wasn't the end he expected.

Instead of splattering against stone, he plunged through the courtyard like a man breaking the surface of water. The sensation was surreal, and panic gripped him as he continued falling—faster and faster—through an endless void. Then, with a sickening lurch, he found himself hurtling downward once more. The sky blurred past him, and he smashed into the stone courtyard a second time, the impact rattling his bones.

Groaning, Jace pushed himself to his hands and knees, the world spinning around him. As his vision steadied, he realized this wasn't the courtyard he knew. It wasn't the age of Maegor's reign, nor even his own time. The Red Keep stood before him, but it was grander, more developed, its spires gleaming in the light of an unfamiliar sun. Confused, he staggered to his feet, his breaths coming fast.

"Where... where am I?" he muttered, looking around. The air felt strange, heavy with purpose and the hum of something unseen.

"Who are you?" a voice called from behind him, sharp and commanding.

Jace froze, his heart pounding. He turned slowly, his eyes landing on a man clad in the shining silver armor of the Kingsguard. The sight was striking—the stranger's presence, his features, pale hair and sharp violet eyes, marked him unmistakably as a Targaryen.

Jace blinked, his mind racing. "I don't... I don't recognize you," he stammered, the words tumbling out clumsily.

The man's expression didn't soften, but he took a step closer, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. "I am Aemond Targaryen, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard," he announced, his voice cold and unwavering.

(AN: So we have another chapter done. Our boy Jace is a knight now and he will continue to improve himself. Daemon proves himself to be an ally, though will that always be the case? Anyway I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)

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