The air in the Maegor’s Holdfast library suite was thick with the scent of crushed nightshade, dried rose petals, and old parchment—a perfume of decadence and quiet ruin.

Outside, the summer wind howled off Blackwater Bay, but behind the heavy plum velvet drapes, the world was still, suspended in the pale amber glow of beeswax candles.

You sat at the edge of a high-backed ebony chair, the delicate silk of your gown spilling around your ankles like liquid silver.

As a trueborn daughter of King Aegon IV and Queen Naerys, as Daeron abd Deanerys, your two siblings, your blood was unblemished Targaryen fire, refined and tragic of your father's countless bastards.

Yet, despite your exalted birth, your eyes kept straying from the illuminated manuscript in your lap toward the figure standing by the arched stone window.

Shierion Seastar.

Your half-brother. The Great Bastard who held court without ever lifting a sword, wielding nothing more than a whisper, a glass candle, and a beauty so unnatural it felt like a curse.

He moved with silent, feline grace, turning away from the rain-streaked glass. The silver thread embroidered along his obsidian doublet caught the candlelight, glinting like frost on a raven’s wing.

His silver-gold hair fell over his shoulders in loose, shimmering waves, framing features carved from smooth porcelain and dangerous precision.

"You read the same page three times, sweet sister," Shieragon murmured. His voice was a slow, intoxicating pour of dark velvet—low, unhurried, and laced with a subtle, mocking warmth that sent a shiver down your spine.

"The Valyrian syntax is complex," you lied, keeping your voice steady as you looked up to meet his gaze.

That gaze was your undoing. His right eye was a deep, burning sapphire, while his left was a pale, translucent emerald.

Heterochromatic twin jewels set in white marble. To look into his eyes was to stare simultaneously into the depths of a frozen sea and an ancient forest.

Shierion closed the distance between you, his boots making no sound against the Persian rug. He did not sit beside you; instead, he leaned over your chair, trapping you within the shadow of his frame. The subtle scent of winter roses and star-anise enveloped you.

"Do not lie to me, jelmio," he whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

"You do not care for the history of the Free Cities. You came to my sanctum because the court bores you, because your royal mother’s piety smothers you, and because... you wished to see what dark arts I was conjuring tonight."

He reached out, his long, fine fingers lingering near your cheek. On his hand, heavy silver rings set with uncut emeralds and sapphires glinted in the dim light. The cool metal touched the side of your throat, tracing the delicate pulse beating wildly beneath your skin.

"Perhaps I simply missed my brother," you murmured, tilting your chin upward, refusing to cower beneath his suffocating aura.

A faint, wicked smile curved his lips. "Brother," he repeated softly, testing the word on his tongue as if it were a rare vintage of Arbor gold. "A title so sterile for blood so tangled. Aegon gave you a crown of legitimacy, yet he gave me the freedom of the shadows. Tell me, princess... which of us is truly free?."