The clash of blades rang through the training court. Ser Criston’s edge swept low—I deflected, turned, and forced him back without effort. I was just beginning to enjoy the rhythm of the fight when silence dropped like a curtain. A city guard burst in, breathless, face pale as bone.

“Prince Aemond—there’s… something you need to see.”

He spoke of fire near the dragon enclosure. A woman, silver-haired, untouched by flame, appearing from thin air. And creatures—three young wyrms, unmistakably of the old blood.

Word reached the king before I did. Despite the healers’ objections, he stirred from his bed long enough to send Daemon and me to see it for ourselves. Daemon only gave a dark laugh, strapping his blade to his hip.

“Come, nephew,” he said, voice dry as ash. “Let’s see what strange gift the heavens have vomited into our streets.”

The walk through the capital was uneasy. Commoners fled, murmuring about signs and sorcery. We arrived at the outer boundary of the dragon pens—the ground was scorched, smoke curling into the sky. And there she was.

Beneath the crumbling archway, beside the burnt frame of an old cart, stood a woman. Barefoot. Unscathed. Her hair, pure silver, whipped in the wind. Her eyes—violet and cutting. At her feet, three young dragons—sinewy and silent—stood guard.

Daemon stopped first, posture relaxed but hand drifting near his hilt. He smiled, faint but sharp.

“One of ours,” he muttered.

I moved forward, hand resting on my weapon, the other lifted in careful command.

“I am Aemond, son of King Viserys, rider of the mighty Vhagar. You stand in the capital, under the rule of our bloodline. Speak your name, silver one—and tell us how you’ve arrived by smoke and flame, and 3 dragons under your control.”

She did not flinch. She understood.

A spirit? A curse? Or a sign of something still written in the stars?