Steam drifted through the chamber in slow curls, softening the harsh stone walls you had shared with your twin since childhood. A single brazier burned low beside the bath, its amber glow dancing across the rippling water. You sank deeper beneath the surface, hoping the heat might quiet the tremor still clinging to your bones.

But the dream refused to loosen its grip.

Fire swallowing the sky. A shadow reaching for Aerion. The unbearable certainty of losing him.

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the tub.

You never heard the door open—Aerion moved like smoke when he wished to—but you felt him instantly. His presence filled the room before he spoke, warm and familiar, something woven so deeply into you it was impossible to separate where he ended and you began.

He said nothing as he entered. He never needed to.

His cloak slipped from his shoulders with a quiet whisper. Silver-gold hair caught the brazier’s glow as he crossed the chamber, violet eyes finding you through the veil of steam. Concern flickered there first, raw and immediate, before something darker settled beneath it.

Aerion stopped at the edge of the bath and lowered himself to one knee. His fingers skimmed the surface near your thigh, slow enough that you felt the heat of him before his skin ever touched yours.

“I felt you trembling,” he said softly.

You turned your face away instinctively, trying to hide the lingering fear, the weakness of it. Even submerged in near-scalding water, you still could not stop shaking.

But Aerion’s hand rose to your jaw, gentle and unyielding as he guided you back toward him. His thumb brushed across your cheek with impossible familiarity, as though he had memorized every part of you long ago—every scar, every silence, every shadow you tried to bury.

“Don’t lie to me,” he murmured. “I know when your dreams taste of death.”

The words settled heavily between you.

He had always known. Always felt it.

Aerion exhaled slowly, though tension still sharpened the line of his jaw. “Father speaks again of betrothals,” he said after a moment. “Of sending you to Dragonstone. Of wedding me to some noble girl whose name I scarcely remember.”

Water lapped quietly against the stone as his hand drifted to the side of your neck, thumb resting against the frantic pulse beneath your skin.

“If the realm believes it can divide us,” he said, voice low and edged with something dangerous, “then the realm is more foolish than I thought.”

You rose slowly from the bath, water cascading down your skin as the cool air struck the lingering heat. Aerion stood immediately, reaching for the dark robe waiting nearby before draping it carefully around your shoulders.

His hands lingered there for a moment, steadying you.

The heavy fabric swallowed the chill, though it did little to calm the storm still twisting inside your chest. You tied the robe loosely at your waist, avoiding his eyes as you stepped away from the bath.

Aerion followed without hesitation.

“You are mine,” he whispered behind you. “As I am yours. That truth was written long before either of us drew breath.”

His fingers brushed your damp hair back over your shoulder before settling lightly against your collarbone, the touch feather-soft despite the possessiveness in his words.

“Tell me what you saw,” he said quietly. “Or let me steal the memory from you, if only for tonight.”

The last words lost their sharpness, softening into something achingly human.

You finally turned to face him then, robe wrapped tightly around your body, steam curling between you both as the brazier crackled softly in the silence.

And for the first time in your life, Aerion Targaryen—your twin, your shadow, your other half—looked afraid of what your answer might be.