God-Child-Soldier

VII

Dragons were meant to burn. So why was it that Jace still saw burning men in his dreams? Was it not in his nature? The predator should not fear the death of its prey. It could only kill or die.

Except it really wasn't that simple, was it?

He had not heard his fathers since that night. It had hit him the moment he had laid his head onto his pillow that night and smelled the smoke he had not managed to wash from his hair.

Fire comforted, but it also destroyed. It had destroyed when Harwin Strong burnt to death in stone halls. It was the thing from which they pulled the charred corpse of Laenor Velaryon. Jace had never seen his father's body, but it seemed in his dreams that all the charred men whispered in ghastly echoes of his voice.

Despite Daemon keeping his promise and not telling his mother, Jace knew she knew what he had done. Her face when Rhaena talked about the desolation of a group of elusive thugs who had been terrorizing the coast only confirmed it. She was angry, Jace could feel it crackling like lightning, but Daemon had been a shield against her ire. Jace was sure this was the first time his stepfather had ever related to him on a level they both understood.

"It becomes easier,: he told Jace flippantly, giving him a strong pat on the shoulder. "The first is always the hardest. It becomes easier."

Jace was not fond of the nightmares which tormented him, but he was sure sleeping as soundly as his stepfather did would have been worse.

He had seen Alder only in passing as the months wore on. It seemed there was a great conspiracy to keep them apart, facilitated by nearly every knight and member of the castle's staff. Every time Jace went to train in swordplay, Alder would be nowhere to be found. When he had asked the first few times, Vance or Bryndol or any of the other knights had just shrugged and said she was polishing armour, or running rounds, or in one case, had just taken a swing at his head to distract him (Ser Bryndol was from the stormlands. They tended to have a singular response to all problems).

Ser Maddock and his stepfather were the orchestrators of this strategy, Jace was sure. Where once he watched idly, Daemon was now present at nearly every training session Jace participated in, eagle-eyed and calling out rather unhelpful tips as Jace fended off his frequent sparring partner in Ser Vance (deemed the only knight hubristic enough to actually hit a prince like he meant it). Ser Maddock was now frequently seen in deep conversation with his stepfather, a man Jace knew he privately distrusted as prone to flying off the handle.

Like he said. A conspiracy.

Two months after her arrival, Jace celebrated his eighteenth name day (he was a man, finally). The castle had been given the entire day to celebrate—even the knights, who took such an excuse to imbue as much liquor and ale the castle saw fit to provide them. It was nearly midnight as the festivities wound down, and Jace's cheeks were red with Arbor wine when he decided to forgo his usual route to his room and allow the turning air of coming spring to cool his face.

"Are you sure?" Rhaena asked seriously. She had not partaken, although Baela was currently halfway through a third glass of more wine than water. Luke was making truly disgusting noises in an effort to make her lose her dinner, and Baela took a playful drunken swing at him, clipping his nose with her fist.

"Baela," Rhaenyra said sharply, bouncing little Aegon on her knee. The boy kept repeating a monosyllabic version of the name of his infant brother Viserys, over and over at increasing volume until Jace simply couldn't stand it any longer.

"Thank you for the celebration, Mother," he said, standing and pretending he didn't wobble with drink. "But I think I am going to retire."

"Pity," Daemon said blandly from his mother's side. "I was going to take you to a whorehouse tonight, to really make you a man."