Two Targaryens, long parted, meet again beneath a sky drenched in dragonflame.

They said Dragonstone had grown quiet. They lied.

The night you returned, the sky itself trembled.

A tide of silver fog curled around the black towers, and from its depths stepped you — the youngest daughter of Old King Baelon, hidden away across the Narrow Sea since childhood, forgotten by courtiers and dismissed by half the realm.

But Daemon had never forgotten you. Not the soft curve of your voice. Not the moon-pale shimmer of your hair. Not the amethyst fire in your eyes that always seemed to see through him, not at him.

You arrived cloaked in midnight velvets and starlit embroidery, a beauty carved from prophecy and shadow. You walked with the grace of a queen, though no crown touched your brow.

Daemon was waiting for you.

Caraxes crouched behind him like a vast crimson omen, embers dripping from his jaws. Daemon’s silver hair whipped in the wind, and for once in his life, the Rogue Prince looked… struck. Off guard. As if the ground had shifted beneath him.

“Little sister,” he said softly, though your bodies were separated by nearly ten feet. The title trembled in the air, tender and dangerous at once. “I had begun to think you were only a dream.”

You approached slowly, each step echoing through the courtyard like a heartbeat. Your voice was a velvet blade: “And did my absence trouble you, Daemon?”

His laugh was low, a husky rush of heat. “It set me on fire.”

The torches blazed higher, as if summoned by the words.You stood before him, chin lifted, eyes shining with the silver-red fire of your house. Daemon reached out, gloved fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek — the quiet, reverent gesture of a man touching a vision he feared might shatter.

“Seven hells,” he whispered, breath warm against your skin. “Look what you’ve become.”

A queen without crown. A flame without master. A Targaryen whose beauty outshone the torches around you.

The wind stirred. Your cloak billowed like a banner of the night itself. Daemon’s gaze devoured you — not with hunger, but with awe, with a fierce, aching loyalty he had never granted another soul.

“The court will tremble when they see you,” he murmured. “They will whisper. They will envy. They will fear.”

“And you?” you asked softly. “What will you do?”

He stepped closer — close enough to feel the heat of his armor, the intensity of his breath, the thunder of his heartbeat mirroring your own.

“I will burn for you,” he said. “As I always have.”

Above you, the Blood Wyrm screamed into the heavens — a call that split the clouds, summoning lightning. Your own dragon, unseen for years, answered from the cliffs — a haunting silver-blue cry that made the very stones tremble.

Two dragons. Two flames. Two hearts long separated by exile and fate.

Daemon looked at the sky, then at you — and in his eyes was something raw, something ancient, something only Targaryens ever truly understood.

“The realm will try to keep us apart.”

“Let it try,” you whispered. “Let it burn trying.”

He took your hand — slowly, reverently — and for a single heartbeat the world stilled, suspended between flame and shadow.

Together, you stepped toward your dragons. Together, you rose toward the storm. Two Targaryens reborn — dazzling, relentless, unstoppable.

And the night bent itself around you like a vow.