God-Child-Soldier

I

When his mother wanted to take him to Dragonstone after his father's death (which father they speak of doesn't matter. They're both dead either way), Jacaerys Velaryon had said he would rather flee across the Narrow Sea and become a dirty, dragonless peasant than leave King's Landing. All he had left of his fathers was here.

His mother, dressed in Targaryen black and red for reasons which would become clear to him via blood rituals and Daemon Targaryen, flicked him on the ear and told him to stop being dramatic. Jace had heeded her as a good prince should, stuck his nose high and suffered Dragonstone for what it was. He suffered Valyrian lessons, a new father, becoming fourteen and then becoming older. Most importantly, he suffered seclusion. To be fair, his family was better than most: his mother loved him, Daemon loved his mother how she deserved, his brothers were only as annoying as they were loyal, and both Baela and Rhaena made excellent company. But Dragonstone was an island and Jace was a crown prince of Targaryen blood. Fire always wanted more.

Jacaerys Velaryon was also, unknown to his mother, both incredibly worried at all times and exceptional at hiding it. He learned to be king with the grace of one, but every new task leveled onto his shoulders just made him worry more. Words slipped through cracks in trickling rivulets, and his disquiet grew as he thought of his uncle Aegon and his grandmother Alicent, far away in his childhood home warming the seat of his grandfather's throne. His mother's throne.

Suffice to say, Jace was altogether the most perturbed and anxious boy in Westeros, and hiding it as best as he could. His saving grace was that he hid it well. In his opinion.

"You know what helped my mother when she was upset?" Baela had whispered one night, as Jace pretended he stared at the ceiling of his room with contemplation rather than paralyzing levels of stress about the latest news from the mainland. His grandfather was growing more ill. Alicent Hightower grew more powerful. Aegon, who had once been something like a friend, grew more twisted. Aemond grew- well, taller, Jace supposed. In all other respects, Aemond had always been exactly what he was.

"What?"

"Flying." Her words twisted with rueful envy, but she didn't mean them any less. "Perhaps it would help you."

"Moondancer will be large enough to ride one day." Jace had said, but he was already thinking of something more. Vermax was just large enough to ride, and like Jace, positively sick and tired of the damp stone pit they were all stuck in.

The first ride did not go well.

"It's alright," Daemon said, trying and failing to comfort Jace as the maester stuck his shoulder back where shoulders were supposed to reside. "We all fall off our dragons at least once."

"Did you?" Jace panted as the maester tied his sore arm to his torso. Daemon took on a very self-important look.

"No, but I was special."

Apparently his mother was special as well. Jace was not. He fell off Vermax twice more before he managed to take his beast around Dragonstone without incident. But when he landed, wind-reddened and hair stuck in all directions, he'd never felt more like himself.

He began going out every night, pushing Vermax to his limit. He would take the dragon up to touch the clouds, plummet to the sea and pull straight so close to the water that he felt the spray against his face. Deep down, he knew that he was not Velaryon by blood. But here, covered in seaspray on dragonback with his hands off the reins and Vermax chittering with glee, he felt like his father, his mother's last husband, was right next to him, telling him he was proud. Telling him he was a good son.

Every night of every month for years, he felt Laenor's presence.

His worry lessened with every beat of Vermax's wings. He understood how Aegon the Conqueror had the gall, the strength to conquer a continent. No man could stop a dragon.