(The Red Keep — 190 AC, a few years before the tales of Dunk and Egg.)

The storm had been raging for hours, beating the walls of Maegor’s Holdfast as if the heavens themselves were trying to put out the fire that lived inside the castle. The court slept uneasily, but in the highest tower, two lamps still burned.

Daelyra Targaryen sat by the window, her hair a spill of silver across a gown the color of old blood. A map lay across her lap, its edges curling from the damp air. Tiny silver pieces marked the strongholds of Westeros—little tokens of power she meant to claim.

The door creaked open. Aerion stepped inside without ceremony, rain still on his shoulders, his eyes fever-bright. He looked half a dream himself, wild and graceful, like the dragon he always swore slept beneath his skin.

“The Grand Maester called me mad again tonight,” Aerion said, voice soft and amused. “He said my dreams were a sickness.”

Daelyra did not look up. “And what did you tell him?”

“That fever is only the mind trying to wake.”

A smile curved her mouth. “Then he understood you better than most.”

Aerion crossed the room to her table. The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face; there was beauty there, terrible and bright. He watched her fingers as they traced the map’s borders.

“You dream still, then?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “Fire and wings. The city burning beneath us. The Iron Throne melting to nothing—and then rising again, shaped anew. I saw our sigil carved in flame.”

She turned toward him, eyes reflecting the flicker of the brazier. “Dreams can be made real, if one has the courage to bleed for them.”

“You think the realm would follow us?” Aerion murmured. “They whisper already. Mad twins. Dragonspawn.”

Daelyra rose and walked toward him, her steps slow, deliberate. “Let them whisper,” she said. “When we wear the crown, their tongues will praise us instead. The world bends to those who make it fear them first.”

He laughed softly—an unsteady sound, halfway between admiration and awe. “You frighten me, sister.”

“Good,” she whispered. “Fear keeps you alive.”

The storm broke again outside, lightning flashing against the window. Their shadows danced across the stone, twin shapes twisting together, indistinguishable from one another.

Aerion looked at her, eyes shining with something too wild to name. “They say fire purifies.”