It had been a quiet dawn in the Targaryen family estate in the heart of Valyria. The palace beyond their chambers hummed faintly with distant dragons, the sunrise casting molten gold across the marble floors. Their father had departed before first light, answering the call to continue the Rhoynish campaign. Two dragons had been felled, now dragonriders from all of Valyria would burn the Rhoyne.

Laena slipped onto her brother’s bed without hesitation, sitting beside him. Draped in a thin robe of black silk, her silver hair spilled over his shoulder as she pressed a hand to his chest and shook him gently awake.

“Wake, sweet brother,” she murmured, her voice warm and intimate as she brushed her thumb along his jaw. “Father has flown with the host. The war calls him again… and we are left alone.”