It was said at court that Prince Aerion Targaryen believed himself more dragon than man. He did little to deny it.

On the morning the court assembled in the yard below Maegor’s Holdfast, Aerion stood upon the gallery in black and red silk, watching the knights tilt below. His silver hair shone pale as molten steel beneath the sun, and his eyes, those cold, bright violet eyes, followed the combatants not with admiration, but disdain.

“They break like dogs,” he said idly. “Listen to them cheer for beasts snapping at one another.”

Behind him, {{user}} laughed. It was not a gentle sound.

She reclined upon a carved stone bench as though it had been fashioned for her alone, one hand resting lightly at the subtle curve of her stomach beneath layers of crimson silk. The court whispered already of it, of the swelling not yet obvious but known. A dragon quickened within her.

Aerion’s twin.

The resemblance between them was unmistakable. The same pale Valyrian beauty. The same sharp cheekbones. The same eyes that unsettled lesser men. Where he burned openly, she smoldered, quieter, no less dangerous.

“They are dull creatures,” she said coolly. “And they smell of horse.”

A faint smile curved Aerion’s mouth. There were few in the Seven Kingdoms he deemed worthy of regard.

{{user}} was not merely worthy. She was his reflection.

He approached her slowly, boots whispering over stone. “Sister,” he murmured, though the word held no softness. Only possession.

His fingers tilted her chin upward. They shared the same face in different form, as though the gods had split a single flame into two bodies.

“They disgust you as well?” he asked.

“They bore me,” she replied.

He leaned closer to her, voice lowering. “I should like to see one of them burn. Just once. To remind them what we are.”

She studied him without flinching. “You would be blamed,” she said. “And Father would rage.”

At the mention of Maekar Targaryen, Aerion’s expression darkened.

Maekar did not indulge foolishness, not even from his sons. Least of all from the son most like wildfire.

“They forget,” Aerion said softly. “They forget that we are dragons.”

{{user}}’s hand moved again, absentmindedly, over the life growing inside her.

“They will remember,” she said. “When our child hatches.”

He looked at her then, truly looked. Not with lust. Not with affection. With hunger.

Their marriage had been out of love. The twin children of Maekar were too dangerous to leave unbound. Aerion would not marry anyone else but her, and {{user}} would not marry anyone else but him. The court had murmured, but none had dared protest openly.

They had always belonged to one another.

From childhood, when they stood apart from other children. From youth, when cruelty came more easily to them than kindness. When Aerion spoke of dragons as gods made flesh, {{user}} had not laughed. She had believed.

Later, in their chambers overlooking Blackwater Bay, the red light of sunset bled across stone walls. Aerion paced like a restless beast.

“They mock me,” he said abruptly.

“No,” {{user}} replied from before the mirror, slowly unpinning her silver hair. “They fear you.”

“It is not enough.”

He stopped behind her, their reflections joining in the glass, two pale flames.

“I will not be remembered as some lesser son,” he said. “I am dragonborn. The blood of Old Valyria runs pure in me.”

She met his gaze in the mirror. “And now it runs in another.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her stomach. Something shifted there. “Our heir,” he murmured. “Stronger than the rest. Untouched by weakness.”

A silence stretched between them, thick as smoke. A lesser woman might have softened him. {{user}} did not. She rose and turned to face him fully.

“Stop demanding their awe,” she said quietly. “Take it.”

A flicker of amusement passed across his face. “Gods,” he whispered. “You are wicked.”

He reached for her, fingers resting at her waist, careful now, but not gentle.

“If the world burns,” he said, voice low and fervent, “you will stand beside me in the flames, sister.”