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“This is an outrage,” Daemon seethes from his position by the door, pacing back and forth with such ferocity that Jacaerys would not be entirely surprised if his mother would need to trade half a rail tank car with the Bullet Farm for some new industrial flooring for their war room, “An atrocity, even, dare I say.”
“We are well aware of your thoughts on the matter, dear cousin,” Jace’s grandmother, Rhaenys, lets out a small sigh—the only cue she’d ever give to her inner frustration. Rhaenys is many things: former heir to the Citadel, rider of Meleys the Red Queen, Imperator of the Bullet Farm, wife to the Warlord known to all as the Sea Snake. Her ever-enduring patience is yet another one of her many, many honoured qualities. That she has been able to tolerate Daemon’s hissing and spitting with the grace of a fairy tale noble is of personal note to Jace—he himself broke half an hour ago and began making faces across the table at Luke, who kept ducking his head down to hide his curling lip.
The rest of the war council seems to be more closely minded with Jace than Rhaenys. Baela has been staring resolutely at a certain point on the Painted Table (some unplotted speck of grey sixty kilometres north of the Bullet Farm), Rhaena doing much the same but at a cliffside thirty-two kilometres south of the Citadel. Celtigar, Staunton, and Massey have been stiller than statues, while Mother’s history man, Gerardys, has been mumbling to himself while investigating his tattooed skin—for answers or for distractions, Jace could not say for certain.
The White Worm has long tired of Daemon’s... theatrics, and has told him so thrice to varying levels of efficacy at getting through to him. Even Mother lacks Rhaenys’ resolve. She has long sunken into her seat, hand over her eyes, as she digests the information Rhaenys had disclosed to the Small Council that caused this ruckus.
“The question becomes,” Rhaenys levels a look across the Painted Table. Jace’s mother is quiet, and has been ever since Rhaenys delivered the very news that provoked this five-hour war council meeting, “What are we to do?”
Last night, Rhaenys drove so quickly to Gas Town that the guards hardly had enough time to let down the bridge before she entered the keep. Tearing into his mother’s chambers, she explained with urgency what had happened at the Citadel while she was there.
The Immortan Viserys has sat the Citadel for close to six-and-twenty years, longer than Jace has been alive. His… delicate health is known to most, but Jace and his family moved from the Citadel to oversee Gas Town eight years ago and knew only from Rhaenys via shipment deliveries of his quickly-worsening health over the past two years. Jacaerys understands their relocation was not one of merely wanting alternate scenery or of claiming additional responsibility as heir to the Citadel, but of growing resentment between his mother and Immortan Viserys’ second wife, the Lady Alicent.
The Immortan’s first wife, Jacaerys’ grandmother Aemma, was of frail countenance due to the nuclear fallout. Mother was her only living child, her only healthy child. All her other children were either stillbirths or deformed to such a degree where even all the history men the Immortan could buy would never find cures for them to survive past infancy. She died in childbirth when Mother was fourteen.
Less than a year later, the Immortan wed Alicent, the daughter of his closest advisor Praetorian Otto (though the man did nothing to attain such a title besides speak poison into the Immortan’s ear). Unlike Aemma, she bore the Immortan four hale and whole children. Actually, scratch that. Debates could be made about whether Helaena is healthy, his sweet aunt has her head much too close to the clouds and is prone to unexplainable outbursts. And his Uncle Aemond is far from sane. As the Immortan’s Imperator following Mother and her departure, Jacaerys found himself interacting with his uncle whenever he received their deliveries of aqua cola, mother’s milk, vegetation, and blood transfusions. Jace could not deny his uncle rode the fearsome war rig Vhagar formidably, nor could he deny his efficacy at ensuring the Citadel’s protection. But unfortunately, Aemond knows of his superior capabilities and is sure to rub it in Jacaerys’ face each time they meet. He takes an unnatural pride in being cruel, even more so than Daemon, and in pushing Jace to his breaking point. There is something in his uncle's single eye that unnerves him beyond description—perhaps Gerardys would know?
Jace knows very little about the dispute between Mother and Alicent, but he knows it stems from their youth. Luke taking Uncle Aemond’s eye showed everyone the most of it, for the Immortan’s wife and daughter fought so viciously before the Wretched that the Immortan let aqua cola down to them as a reminder of his daughter’s legitimacy. Of what questioning his rulings meant for them.
But now Uncle Aegon controls the aqua cola. There is little else the Wretched can do if they want to survive but cower and heed the man whose hand pours their sustenance. It makes Jacaerys sick. They ought to obey and seek others to Witness them in glorious death, but the Wretched are weak. That was why they needed the Targaryen's to guide them. They should want his mother to reach Immortan, only then would they enter Valhalla.
The Immortan finally rides eternal himself, entering shiny and chrome a few nights ago. Just as he wanted—and just as he should have done years ago. Jace loves, loved, his grandfather, but from what his grandmother told the Small Council, it sounds like these past years of his life were spent in utter purgatory. Unable to ride, unable to breathe... it's not a life Jace would even wish on an enemy.
Most believed the Immortan would grant the Citadel to his son Aegon, despite him never being declared heir as Mother was. With Mother commanding the Bullet Farm, Jacaerys overheard more than once of public opinion favouring Aegon. The mongrels knew nothing of his uncle’s nature; gluttonous and lustful, he would beggar the Citadel to ruin if he was allowed to ascend to become Immortan. There would be no food for anyone nor aqua cola, then they would all perish in this ruinous Waste. There would be no more Green left for them to live off of.
Moreover, he is untested in battle and untested on the road still, at twenty name-days. While he may be a competent rider of Sunfyre the Golden, he never escorts shipments like Uncle Aemond does. He never defends the Three Fortresses of the Wasteland from raiders as his Uncle Daeron is known to do. He does not tend to the crops alongside Aunt Helaena.
Jacaerys, of course, ignores the fact that he is also untested in battle and on the road when making his critique of his uncle. Up until a few days ago, he was the heir of an heir, not the heir himself. Besides, he has recently been given the privilege to oversee shipments and assisted Daemon on deliveries to Gas Town with his ride Vermax.
Last Jace knew, Alicent and his mother made up on their last visit to the Citadel not even a week ago. Alicent said she would ascend to Immortan finely, shiny and chrome as the ruler of the Citadel. And Alicent is, was, a good wife, caring for her husband who could not care for himself. But then Alicent forsook the Immortan’s final wish and crowned her drunken son before letting the aqua cola fall for the Wretched for one whole minute. Jace must have misunderstood her words at dinner. Pity.
“What else is there to do?” He says. Heads flip toward him. His mother’s eyes flash in warning, Luke’s in confusion. He doesn’t know why—there’s only one solution for them. Bullets may feed their war, but it will not feed their bellies. Guzzoline may fuel their tanks, but only aqua cola will save them from dying unvictorious.
“We must reclaim the Citadel ourselves, with fire and blood.”
Across the table, Jacaerys swears he sees Daemon smile.