The air in High Tide was thick with the scent of salt and the iron tang of fresh blood.
Jacaerys Velaryon lay on the cold stone, his head ringing from the impact of Aemond Targaryen's fist. But as he looked up, the world did not appear blurry. Through his Supernatural Senses, every grain of dust in the air, every flicker of the torchlight, and the frantic rhythm of his brother Lucerys's heart became crystal clear.
The old Jacaerys was gone. In his place was a soul that had traversed the void, armed with the secrets of the House of the Dragon and the ancient lore of A Song of Ice and Fire. Deep in his veins, the Divine Dragon Blood surged, silently repairing the trauma to his skull. His Supernatural Healing worked invisibly; to the maesters, it would simply look like a quick recovery for a healthy boy.
He watched, motionless, as the scene he knew by heart played out. Aemond, arrogant and fueled by his new bond with Vhagar, loomed over them with a rock. Luke, terrified and desperate, lashed out with his knife.
The steel sliced through Aemond's eye.
The scream that followed was visceral, a sound that would divide the realm forever. Jace stood up slowly, his movements possessed by a Skill Mastery that he carefully suppressed. He made sure to look shaken, his breathing heavy, appearing as nothing more than a brave but frightened ten-year-old boy.
The Dance has begun, he thought, his violet-tinged eyes hidden behind a mask of childhood trauma. And I am the only one who knows the music.
In the weeks following the tragedy at Driftmark, the royal court returned to a state of cold war. On Dragonstone, Jacaerys began his transformation.
He did not display magic. He did not perform miracles. Instead, he became a paragon of discipline. He spent hours in the training yard, his Skill Mastery allowing him to absorb decades of swordsmanship in days. To his masters-at-arms, he was simply a prodigy whose dedication was bordering on obsession.
The Prince is always the first to wake and the last to leave the yard, the guards whispered.
Behind this facade of hard work, Jace was building his web. Using Skill Sharing, he began to touch the lives of those around him—the stable boys, the archers, the scouts. While sparring or offering a word of encouragement, he would trigger the enhancement. These men suddenly found their reflexes sharpened to Peak Human levels. Their loyalty to Jacaerys became an immovable pillar of their souls, yet they attributed their new skills to the Prince's rigorous training methods.
His silent army was spreading, not just in Dragonstone, but across the Narrow Sea and into the heart of King's Landing, bound to him by a supernatural tie they didn't even realize existed.
The most dangerous part of his plan required the absolute solitude of the Dragonmont. Jacaerys knew that Vermax, while loyal, would never be enough to face the gargantuan Vhagar.
One moonless night, he navigated the volcanic vents, guided by his Divine Dragon Blood. He did not seek a hatchling. He sought the true nightmare: The Cannibal.
The beast was a mountain of black coal and spite, its eyes burning with a sickly green light. It lunged to devour the small intruder, but Jace stood his ground. He did not use a dragon whip. He used his Dragon Mastery, a divine authority that resonated in the very air.
Peace, monster, Jace whispered, his voice carrying a frequency only the dragon could hear. I am the blood of Old Valyria, refined by the heavens.
The Cannibal shivered. The supernatural energy from Jace's touch began to flow into the dragon. The beast's scales grew denser, its wings broader, and its fire changed from green to a terrifying, white-hot blue. Most importantly, it gained a Supernatural Recovery ability that matched Jace's own.
I rename you Vormax, Jace declared. He would keep Vormax hidden in the high peaks, visiting him only in secret, while publicly maintaining his bond with the smaller Vermax. No one could know he rode the King of the Wild Dragons.
As the months turned into years, Jace's focus narrowed on the one person who mattered most: Rhaenyra.
He stayed by her side constantly. He became her most trusted advisor, helping her navigate the politics of the Black Council. Using his invisible influence, he enhanced her. He did not give her new powers; he simply brought her natural Targaryen traits to their absolute peak. Her beauty became ethereal, her mind for strategy sharpened, and her dragon,
Syrax, grew larger and more formidable under her touch.
One evening, as they stood over the Painted Table, Rhaenyra sighed, her hand resting near Jace's. He was only eleven, but he already had the height and presence of a boy three years older.
The Greens are gathering allies, Jace, she murmured. Your grandfather grows weaker every day.
Jace placed his hand over hers. His Supernatural Senses felt the warmth of her skin and the slight tremor in her pulse. Let them gather, Mother. While they play at politics, we build a kingdom that cannot be broken. I am your shield, and I will be your sword. No one will ever come between us.
Rhaenyra looked at her eldest son, mesmerized by the intensity in his gaze. She felt a connection to him that surpassed anything she felt for her husband or even Daemon. It was a bond of soul and fire.
You are more than an heir, Jacaerys, she whispered, her voice filled with a strange, new affection. You are the future.
Jace bowed his head, hiding a cold, determined smile. He would wait. He would build. And when he reached his fourteenth year, the secrets they shared would move from the council chamber to the bedchamber, and eventually, to the throne.