The Red Keep had never seemed so small to Aerion Targaryen.

He stood upon the outer balcony of Maegor’s Holdfast, pale hair lifting in the salt wind from Blackwater Bay. Below him, King’s Landing sprawled like a festering wound, smallfolk crawling through its arteries, knights strutting in borrowed steel, lords pretending at dragon’s blood.

He rested one gloved hand upon the stone balustrade. They are ants, he thought. And I am flame.

Behind him, the chamber doors opened softly. He did not turn. He knew the step. Light. Measured. Never hurried.

“Sweetling,” he said, his tone almost idle. “You walk as though the floor might shatter beneath you. You are no glass doll, you know.”

{{user}} of House Dayne came to stand beside him. She wore pale lavender silk, and in the torchlight her dark hair shimmered like polished onyx, a striking contrast to the silver of her husband’s. She was of his mother’s blood, old and noble, and her violet eyes were softer than his ever would be.

“Our children are asleep,” she said gently. “Maegor would not settle until he heard a tale of dragons.”

Aerion’s lips curved. “Good. He should hunger for such things.”

There was pride there, fierce and gleaming. His sons were strong. His daughters fair. Five children in five years of marriage.

Maegor. Visenya. Aegon. Saera. Naeyra.

All silver-haired. All unmistakably Valyrian.

Unlike poor Valarr. Aerion’s mouth twisted faintly. Earlier that evening, in the great hall, wine had flowed freely. Valarr and his wife had sat side by side, dignified, composed, childless.

Aerion had lifted his cup. “A strange thing,” he had remarked lazily, loud enough for half the table to hear. “Some bloodlines blaze. Others… smolder.”

Valarr had stiffened. His wife had lowered her eyes. {{user}} had placed a gentle hand upon Aerion’s wrist beneath the table.

“My prince,” she had said sweetly, “the gods grant children in their own time.”

Aerion had laughed. “The gods?” he had replied. “Dragons need no gods.”

Now, on the balcony, he glanced sideways at her. “You pity them,” he said. “They are weak, stop pity them.” Aerion turned fully then, studying her. There was something in her he did not possess, a softness that did not break. She spoke kindly even to those he would gladly see humbled.

He brushed his fingers along her jaw, not tenderly, not cruelly, simply because he could.

“You concern yourself with lesser matters,” he murmured. “Why look to barren branches when we have grown an orchard of silver flame?”

She did not recoil from him. She never did. “I'm not pitying... I'm just saying that they too will have children one day when the gods see fit... one day Valarr have his own heirs like the way you do.” she said quietly.

“Yes, yes... My heirs,” he said. “The realm will choke on them.”

He smiled then, the beautiful, terrible smile that had made hedge knights tremble at Ashford Meadow.

“Let Valarr keep his dignity. But I will keep my legacy.” He drew her toward him, fingers tightening slightly at her waist.

“You know... You are a good wife, sweetling,” he said. “You have gave me a lot of children... unlike Valarr's wife... I suppose I should thanked you for giving me an army of silver-haired children.”

It was not quite praise. But from Aerion Brightflame, it was something close.