Two Flames of Ice and Fire
Authors Note: Quick note to anyone who follows my other story, The Black Swordsmen Deku: Hero of Aincrad, I am not dropping it. That story will be worked on until completed. So don't worry about that. As of now, I've already created a majority of the outlines for this GOT story while I was binge watching it. pretty much just adding the extra info/details to characters relationships as well as including some more lore that I find fun. Now to the story.
Disclaimer:
I do not own Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire, or any of the characters, settings, or lore within George R.R. Martin's incredible world. All rights to the books, TV series, and any related media belong to him and their respective copyright holders.
George R.R. Martin is a master storyteller, and his ability to weave rich, complex narratives filled with political intrigue, deep character development, and breathtaking world-building is nothing short of legendary. His work has inspired countless fans, and this story is simply a love letter to the world he created.
That being said, I only own the rights to this fanfiction and its unique interpretation of the A Song of Ice and Fire universe. This is purely a creative work made by a fan, for fans.
Also, I've decided not to name Jon, Aegon Targaryen because it never made much sense for Rhaegar to name two of his sons Aegon—I chose Jacaerys with inspiration from Jacaerys Velaryon, another bastard-born Targaryen descendant with dark hair, much like Jon in this story.
However, for simplicity's sake, as the story progresses and Jacaerys story is moved along, I'll begin to use the name Jon, for simplistic reasons. I recently just binged all of GOT and HOD in a couple months, as well as well as doing a bunch of digging into all of the books. So this story will have lore from both the books and the show. Hope yall enjoy! :)
Chapter 1: The Storm Which Brews
Viserys POV
Dragonstone, 284 AC – The Storm and the Last Targaryen Queen
The world outside raged in fury.
Winds howled through Dragonstone's high towers, forcing their way through the fortress's ancient stone like the cries of vengeful ghosts. The rain slammed against the castle's walls in relentless waves, seeping through cracks in the ceiling, dripping onto the cold black stone floors. Thunder rolled in the distance, shaking the keep with its terrible might, each roar growing louder as if the gods themselves raged at the storm's arrival.
Viserys huddled near the doorway, his back pressed against the damp stone, his small arms curled around his knees. He had always hated storms. They made everything feel smaller, tighter—like the world was closing in on him. But tonight, the storm was not the loudest thing in Dragonstone.
Another scream tore through the halls, sharp and raw, cutting through the endless howling of the wind. It came from the Queen's chambers.
His mother.
Servants rushed back and forth, their faces pale, their hurried steps splashing through puddles forming in the cracks of the stone floor. The flickering candlelight barely held against the darkness, casting frantic, elongated shadows that danced along the walls like specters. He could hear the muffled voices—urgent, desperate—shouting instructions that were drowned out by another agonized wail.
Viserys clenched his jaw, hands curling into his tunic.
He wasn't stupid. He knew what was happening. A baby was being born.
But then… why did it sound like something was dying?
Another flash of lightning illuminated the dim corridor for just a moment. Across the hall, a simple wooden crib sat in the corner, away from the draft.
The babe inside shifted restlessly in his sleep, swaddled in fine red-and-black silk that bore the Targaryen three-headed dragon. Jacaerys Targaryen, or Jace, as the servants called him. Barely a month old.
He was so small. So… fragile.
Viserys stared at him.
Something about the sight made his stomach twist.
⸻
Inside the chamber, the air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and the damp rot of the storm seeping into the castle walls.
"Push, Your Grace!" The midwife's voice was hoarse, desperate.
Rhaella Targaryen lay drenched in sweat, her silver hair clinging to her skin, her once-beautiful face twisted in exhaustion. She had been laboring for hours. Blood soaked the sheets beneath her, staining them dark against the flickering candlelight. Her body trembled, her breathing ragged, but she forced herself forward.
One last scream. One final push.
And then… a wail.
The sound of a child's first breath pierced the air, delicate but strong. A girl.
The storm did not stop.
Rhaella's lips parted as she exhaled shakily. Her strength was leaving her. The room spun, her vision blurring at the edges.
Someone held the babe up for her to see—a girl wrapped in silk, her cries fierce despite her size.
Rhaella smiled weakly, her fingers twitching as if reaching for the child she would never hold.
"The storm…" she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. "The storm… will not break you."
Her body sagged against the bloodied sheets. Her breaths slowed. Then, they stopped.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was dead.
The newborn continued to cry.
⸻
Viserys did not need to hear the words to understand what had happened.
He felt it in the silence that followed.
The storm outside raged on, the keep trembling under the force of nature's wrath, but inside the halls of Dragonstone, everything was still.
A moment later, the chamber doors creaked open. A maester stepped out, his face grim, his robes speckled with blood. He glanced down at Viserys, then past him to the crib in the corner.
"The Queen is gone," the old man murmured. "But a princess is born."
Viserys' breath hitched.
Gone.
His mother was gone.
He turned his head slowly, his gaze falling back to the crib. To Jace.
His fingers curled into trembling fists.
Their father had died when he was too young to remember. His mother had fought to keep them safe. And now she, too, was gone.
And yet he still remained.
A month-old babe with no place in the world.
A child born of a woman who was not the Queen. A child whose very existence meant nothing.
A child who did not deserve to survive when Rhaella did not.
Thunder crashed through the heavens. Viserys stared at Jace's sleeping face.
"First our brother, then father, now our mother…" he whispered. His voice was shaking. "Why does everyone I need keep dying?!"
He reached out, his small fingers brushing the edge of the crib. A single thought slithered into his mind, unspoken, unformed.
What if he wasn't here?
Then the door suddenly burst open.
A septa rushed in, her breath uneven, her expression frantic as she rushed toward the crib.
Viserys jerked back, his heart pounding. He turned sharply, stepping away from Jace as if he had been burned.
The moment was gone.
But the thought—the seed—had already been planted.
And it would grow.
⸻
The storm had not relented, but neither had the men who still remained loyal to House Targaryen. The fortress was already emptying, retainers and loyalists gathering whatever they could carry in preparation for the last ships departing Dragonstone.
Sir Willem Darry stood at the docks, his expression hard with urgency. "We sail now," he commanded. "There is no more time."
The last Targaryens were carried aboard—Viserys, Jace, and the newborn Daenerys, barely a few hours old.
The ship rocked violently against the waves as the storm threatened to consume it, but it did not sink.
And so, the last three children of the dragon sailed away, leaving their home behind, carried into exile under the cover of darkness and rain.
Viserys did not look back.
Jace remained asleep in the cradle beside him.
And as the ship drifted further from the shores of Westeros, the young prince's silver eyes darkened with something new.
Hatred.
For the usurpers. For the world that had stolen his throne. And for the bastard boy who should not have survived when his mother had died.
⸻
6 Years Later (Viserys POV, Age 13)
The years had not been kind.
Viserys had known exile would be difficult. He had known they would be forced to live off the pity of men who once claimed loyalty to House Targaryen. But he had not expected the slow decay—the quiet erosion of what little they had left.
The fine silks had become worn at the edges. Their meals had grown smaller. The grand halls where he once dined were now cramped quarters with flickering torches that barely held back the darkness.
The Free Cities no longer whispered his name with reverence. They no longer called him Your Grace.
He clenched his jaw as he sat near the balcony of their latest home, staring out at the sprawling city below. It was not a palace. It was not a throne. It was not Westeros.
The longer they stayed in exile, the further his birthright slipped through his fingers.
And yet he remained.
Viserys turned his head, his gaze settling on the boy sitting across the courtyard.
Jace.
He was ten now, same as Viserys' little sister. He had grown taller, leaner, his hair dark like coal—like a Stark.
Like the people who had stolen his throne.
Viserys hated looking at him.
The resemblance was clear, right there in front of him—the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his eyes had that same distant, brooding expression.
It was like looking at the filth who had butchered his father and brother.
At first, it had been easy to ignore him.
Jace was just a babe when they fled Dragonstone—weak, voiceless, insignificant.
But now… now when I've had to sell mother's crown just to put food their dammed belly's.
I'm left with nothing, but family.
Daenerys.
Viserys' grip tightened on the goblet in his hand.
It was unnatural.
Jace had no right to stand beside the true heirs to the house of dragon.
He was nothing—no crown, no signs of having a dragon's blood. Just a nameless stain left behind by his brother's stupidity.
Viserys refused to allow it to continue forever.
⸻
Daenerys and Jace sat beneath the shade of a crumbling stone wall, their voices just soft enough that Viserys could not hear every word.
But he heard enough.
Daenerys leaned forward, her silver hair catching the evening light.
"The Land of Always Winter," she whispered. "They say it's real. A place where no one can find you."
Jace tilted his head, silent.
Then he smiled—but only for a moment.
His expression darkened soon after.
"No one would ever find us."
Viserys' grip on his goblet nearly cracked the metal.
They were whispering about escape.
Daenerys—his little sister—the last thing from House Targaryen other than himself.
With him.
Viserys felt something hot coil inside his chest.
Rage.
Jace's POV – 10 Years Old. Somewhere in Pentos
The food was rich, spiced, better than anything they had eaten in months.
Jace barely touched it.
The hall was loud with voices, men speaking in tongues he barely understood, the air thick with the scent of meat and cheap perfume. Their host's home was warm and well-lit, a place meant for comfort, yet Jace's stomach had never felt heavier.
He could feel Viserys watching them.
Across the table, Daenerys sat quiet, small, her fingers barely picking at the food on her plate. She had learned to keep her head down.
Jace hated it.
Viserys let out a long, exaggerated sigh, setting his goblet down with a clunk.
"You're acting like a spoiled brat, sweet sister," he drawled, swirling the wine in his hand. "Sulking when you should be grateful. We're honored guests."
Jace fought the urge to scoff.
Guests.
No, they were strays, tolerated out of politeness.
Daenerys stiffened but kept her head down.
"I'm not sulking," she murmured.
"A lie doesn't become true just because you whisper it."
Viserys took another sip, then turned his sharp gaze to Jace.
"Tell me, dear nephew, does it make you feel important?"
Jace stilled.
"What?"
"Being her little guard dog," Viserys smirked. "Growling at me every time I tell her what she needs to hear. Has it ever worked?"
Jace's grip on his fork tightened, knuckles aching from how hard he held it.
"She doesn't need to hear anything from you," Jace said evenly.
Viserys chuckled. A slow, amused sound.
"You really do think you're a knight, don't you?" He leaned forward, violet eyes glinting in the firelight. "But you're not. You're not even a Targaryen. Just the bastard whelp of a whore who thought she could birth a king."
Jace clenched his jaw, his face a mask of cold stone.
Don't react. Don't let him see.
Viserys leaned back, pleased with himself.
"Eat, dear nephew. Gods know it'll be your last good meal for a long time."
Jace exhaled slowly.
He forced himself to sit back down, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The moment passed like it never happened.
The room's laughter, the clinking of goblets, the scrape of cutlery—all of it returned, and yet…
Jace could feel Daenerys' small hand brush against his under the table.
A quiet, hesitant thank you.
Jace didn't acknowledge it.
He just stared down at his plate, his appetite long gone.
Jace had grown used to this.
The insults, the beatings, the sneers—it was nothing new.
From the first memory he could recall, Viserys had always been bitter.
Always angry at the world.
If he wasn't taking it out on Jace, then it was always on Daenerys.
Better me than her, Jace told himself.
His treatment had only gotten worse over time.
When they were younger, Viserys' cruelty had been words, taunts, sharp little jabs meant to remind Jace of his place. But as they grew, so did Viserys' temper.
The bruises lasted longer. The beatings came harder.
And still, Jace refused to bend.
That was what angered Viserys the most.
Jace leaned against the cool stone wall of the hall, exhaling slowly. His cheek ached, his lip split from the slap at dinner.
At least Daenerys hadn't taken it this time.
The thought settled something in his chest.
A quiet set of footsteps approached.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
"Are you okay?"
Jace sighed.
"Fine," he muttered.
Daenerys stood beside him, arms crossed over her chest. She had that look in her eye—the one she always got when she knew he was lying.
"You know," she mused, tilting her head, "at least we finally figured out what Viserys loves more than hearing himself talk."
Jace glanced at her.
"Oh?"
"Wine."
Jace huffed out a chuckle.
Daenerys grinned, encouraged by his reaction.
"I'm serious," she continued. "I heard one of the servants say they had to refill his goblet three times tonight. If he ever finds his way to the Iron Throne, he'll be passed out on it before he even gets crowned."
Jace actually laughed at that. A rare, genuine sound.
"Imagine the songs," he murmured.
"Viserys the Drunken King," she said dramatically. "Slayer of goblets. Usurper of the wine cellars."
Jace smirked.
"First of his name," he added.
She chuckled as she added, "Last of his dignity."
They both laughed, the sound light for once, easy.
It felt good.
And then the laughter died in his throat.
Daenerys froze, her expression falling in an instant.
Jace turned just in time to see Viserys step from around the corner.
The wine had done nothing to soften his anger. His expression was twisted in pure, seething rage.
"What did you say?"
Daenerys took a step back.
Jace saw it—the way Viserys' hand twitched at his side.
Jace knew what was coming.
Viserys wasn't going to let this slide.
And Daenerys was right in front of him.
Jace moved before he could think.
His fist clenched.
His arm swung.
And for the first time in his life—
Jace got the first hit.
His knuckles connected with Viserys' cheekbone in a sharp, jarring blow.
For a moment—just a moment—Viserys actually stumbled.
Jace saw the shock flash in his eyes.
Then came the rage.
"You little—"
Viserys lunged at him.
The first punch landed hard against Jace's ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. The second came too fast—striking his temple, his vision blurring from the force of it.
Then another. And another.
Jace hit the ground before he even knew he was falling.
His head rang.
Something warm dripped down the side of his face.
He could hear Daenerys yelling—shouting his name, screaming for Viserys to stop.
Jace wasn't sure if he could move.
"This time," he thought dimly, "I might've overdone it."
The next blow never came.
Jace blinked through the haze.
Something was wrong.
Viserys was still shouting, but not at him.
"You little wretch! You dare lay hands on me?!"
Daenerys.
She was hitting him—pounding her small fists against Viserys' back.
Viserys wheeled on her, furious.
"You—!"
Jace knew what was about to happen.
Viserys was going to beat her.
Jace had never moved faster in his life.
His body ached, his limbs slow and heavy, but he forced himself to his feet.
"Viserys!"
The older boy whirled toward him, startled.
Jace took his chance.
One last punch—straight to his gut.
Viserys staggered, doubling over, clutching his stomach with a choked gasp.
Jace let himself collapse back onto the floor, chest heaving.
The only sound was Viserys breathing heavily, hands trembling with rage.
Then, finally—
A sharp kick landed square in Jace's ribs.
Pain exploded through his side, but he refused to cry out. He just curled slightly, gritting his teeth as the impact sent a dull throb through his already aching body.
"You dark-haired bastard," Viserys spat.
Jace let out a weak, breathless chuckle.
Viserys' lip curled with disgust.
"Don't forget your place," he hissed, stepping back. "You're lucky to have a place amongst us to begin with."
Jace stared up at him, vision blurred, ribs aching.
But he still smirked.
Because Viserys was still standing there.
Still watching.
Still seething.
Jace thought to himself that for all his talk—Viserys was the one who needed this victory, not Jace.
Then he was gone, his footsteps disappearing down the hall.
Jace let his head drop back against the stone.
His whole body ached.
He felt Daenerys kneel beside him, her hands trembling.
"Jace," she whispered.
Jace closed his eyes.
"I'm fine."
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if it was a lie.
Jace laid there for a few moments, chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
Daenerys was frantic, her small hands pressing against his arms, his shoulders, his face—checking for wounds she already knew were there.
"Jacaerys," she whispered, voice tight with worry.
Jace winced at the full name.
"I'm fine, Danny," he muttered, forcing his eyes open.
She didn't look convinced.
Jace shifted, craning his neck slightly to check the hall.
Viserys was gone.
He let out a slow exhale, then, through swollen lips, muttered,
"I mean… how many people can say they've landed a blow on a dragon?"
Daenerys blinked.
"Let alone fight one and survive," he added dryly.
Daenerys stared at him for a beat—then laughed.
A breathy, incredulous sound.
"This isn't the time for your sense of humor, Jace," she sighed, shaking her head as she helped him sit up.
"Might be the only thing keeping me conscious," he admitted, groaning as she hauled him to his feet.
Daenerys rolled her eyes but smiled.
She looped his arm around her shoulders, guiding him toward his room.
Jace didn't resist.
For now, he let her take care of him.
⸻
An Intriguing Offer: Viserys POV
"My prince."
A voice cut through his spiraling thoughts.
Viserys blinked, turning toward the figure that had approached from the doorway.
A man stood before him, cloaked in fine silk, his hands clasped in front of him.
A merchant. No—something else.
There was something in his expression that made Viserys pause.
The man smiled.
"I bring you an intriguing offer."
Viserys exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening around the goblet.
He straightened his posture.
Then, he gestured for the man to continue.
It was time to set things right.
————————————
A Few Weeks Later: Jace POV
The heat of the Free Cities never quite settled.
Even as the sun dipped below the horizon, the air clung to Jace's skin, thick with dust and the distant scent of roasting meat from the market streets beyond their crumbling courtyard.
He sat beneath a broken stone wall, back against the rough surface, listening as Daenerys spoke—again.
"The Land of Always Winter," she whispered, eyes alight with curiosity. "They say it's real. A place where no one can find you."
Jace exhaled through his nose, tilting his head toward her.
"You've brought this up before."
Daenerys ignored the comment, pressing on with the same hushed excitement as always.
Jace glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly.
It still sounded like a fairytale. A child's fantasy.
But there was something in the way she said it.
Like she needed it to be true.
Jace sighed, resting his head back against the stone.
"No one would ever find us," he murmured, the words automatic now.
She had said it before.
He had answered before.
And every time, he let himself imagine it.
A place where no one could find them.
No Viserys. No empty halls filled with whispers of a kingdom they would never see. No hollow reminders that they did not belong.
But he always came back to the same conclusion.
Jace shook his head, exhaling sharply.
"It's just a story, Danny."
She frowned.
"How do you know?"
Jace didn't answer immediately.
They had gone in circles on this before.
She always asked. He always gave the same response.
"Because if it were real," he said, voice quiet but certain, "someone would have found it already."
Daenerys huffed, kicking a stray pebble near her foot.
She didn't argue.
She never did, not out loud.
But he knew she still believed.
She pulled her knees to her chest, resting her chin atop them.
"I just want to go home," she whispered, voice softer this time.
Jace's smile faded.
She had said that before, too.
And he knew she wasn't talking about a place.
Not really.
She meant a feeling.
A home was more than walls and banners. It was safety.
And neither of them had ever truly known it.
So instead of arguing, instead of going in circles again, he simply nodded.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."
And for a while, they just sat there, watching as the sky darkened into night.
⸻
The Next Morning
The morning air was already thick, the scent of roasting meat and cheap wine lingering from the market streets. The heat had settled over the city like a second skin, clinging to everything it touched.
Jace walked beside Viserys, his muscles tense, his steps careful.
He hadn't been given a choice.
Viserys had woken him early, voice unusually calm, telling him they should take a walk—to clear the air between them, to put the past behind them.
That alone had been enough to put Jace on edge.
"I've been thinking," Viserys had said as they left the courtyard. "Perhaps I've been too harsh on you."
Jace had learned long ago not to believe in fairy tales.
And Viserys offering an apology? That was a fairy tale if he'd ever heard one.
So he didn't believe it.
Not for a second.
But he followed anyway.
Because what choice did he have?
Viserys had led them through the winding streets, his voice light, easy, like he was actually enjoying their conversation.
Jace let him speak, but he wasn't listening.
He never listened.
Viserys' words had never been meant to be heard. They were meant to be obeyed.
Still, something about today felt different.
Too light.
Too rehearsed.
Then came the shift.
"You know, I've come to realize something," Viserys continued, hands folded behind his back as they wandered deeper into the streets.
"You don't belong with us. You never did."
Jace stopped walking.
A flicker of unease curled in his stomach, spreading like slow-moving sickness.
That was the moment.
The moment he should have run.
His mind screamed at him to move.
But he had hesitated.
He turned his head slightly, scanning the alley.
Shadows shifted in the corners.
Figures stepping forward.
His chest tightened.
"No."
Then, before he could move—hands grabbed him.
The world tilted violently as he was wrenched backward.
Jace twisted, trying to break free, but more hands—more weight—forced him down.
He thrashed, kicked, elbowed, snarled, fought—
A sharp fist slammed into his ribs.
Pain exploded through his body, knocking the breath from his lungs.
His knees hit the ground.
A second punch, harder this time.
Jace coughed, gasping, head spinning, his body curling inward out of instinct.
"No. No. No."
He forced himself to look up.
And there was Viserys, crouching before him.
Smiling.
Jace's stomach dropped.
He had known.
Somewhere deep in his bones, he had known from the start.
"Oh, I'm sure Daenerys will be heartbroken over this…" Viserys mused, voice thick with mockery.
"Or will she just forget about you, bastard? Doesn't really matter either way…"
He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.
"If she doesn't, I'll make her."
Something cold and sharp twisted inside Jace's chest.
That was when he realized—
This was real.
This was happening.
Viserys was never going to let him go back.
Jace's breath came sharp and ragged, his heart pounding against his ribs.
But he didn't beg.
Didn't speak.
Didn't even blink.
He just stared.
Because he would not give Viserys the satisfaction.
Viserys' smile widened, pleased.
"Don't you worry, little bastard son of the usurper's whore." His voice dripped with condescension.
"I made sure to ask what they planned for you."
Jace didn't move as Viserys reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, dull copper coin.
With mocking gentleness, he tucked it into the folds of Jace's tunic.
"Place this bet on yourself when you get to the fighting pits of Slaver's Bay," he murmured. "Perhaps if you're lucky, you can buy your freedom back."
Jace's fingers twitched.
His hands shook, but he curled them into fists.
Nails digging into his palms.
"I will not break."
"Not here."
"Not in front of him."
Even as the men dragged him away, even as the alleyway grew smaller and smaller, he did not look back.
And he did not cry.
Author's Notes:
Okay so first off this will be the one and only time I have the disclaimers up or have Author notes before and after the chapter. Now then I'm not quite sure how long this story will be. I don't plan on going over every nick and cranny of the story, there are so many complex pieces in the world of GOT that I'm not going to change everything. So if not explained or briefly touched on it's most likely the same as cannon. I think we can all agree that season 8 was disappointing so I can tell ya now, our ending will be much better. I already have most of chapter 2 done so you can expect that soon. I hope y'all have enjoyed the story so far! Please leave a review of your honest thoughts! It's the only way I can get better, plus it's always fun to theorize with you guys. I only ask for everyone to keep it respectful. Thanks and have a good one! :)
If any of my readers from The Black Swordsmen are still here, the next chapter currently has 2,500 words and that's just the opening scene. I'm expecting another big chapter so I'm really excited to get that out to you guys soon but I've been working on the story for so long, both the current chapters and planning ahead. Well I needed a little break, but we're still on pace for the next chapter before the end of the month.
OtakuShift