The wind tasted of salt and ash.

Aegon stood at the edge of Dragonstone’s blackened cliffs, his gaze cast westward across the Narrow Sea, toward the fractured land that would soon bear his name. The dusk sky burned a deep crimson behind him — a fitting omen, he thought. The gods, if they existed, had painted the horizon in fire.

Beneath his darkened steel, his blood thrummed with a sharp and steady purpose. Not excitement — Aegon had never been prone to joy. Not fear — he had long since drowned such feelings in the silence of command. No, what stirred within him was something older, heavier.

Conviction.

He had waited long enough.

The Seven Kingdoms were weak. Divided by borders, bloated by pride, ruled by men who clung to their crowns like children to broken toys. He would take them. Not out of hunger for power — though he did not deny the taste of it — but because they needed to be taken.

If he did not bind the realm now, it would rot. Or worse — it would fall, and the darkness he had glimpsed in his dreams would feast on what remained.

He had Balerion. He had fire.

And soon, he would have the realm.

Behind him, Visenya checked the straps on Vhagar with her usual severity. His elder sister had never needed words to speak her mind. Her cold stare was enough. She met his gaze now, as if to say: If you waver, I won’t.

She never had.

Further back, Rhaenys laughed softly as Meraxes turned her golden eyes toward the sea. Rhaenys was warmth where Visenya was frost — beauty and charm and idle song. But Aegon knew better than to mistake her ease for weakness. Her dragon had killed men before ever setting foot on Westerosi soil.

Then came a smaller sound — the whisper of wind rather than thunder.

He turned his head slightly and saw her: his youngest sister, the one no one expected anything of. Silver-haired, violet-eyed, a dreamer more than a dragonrider. She stood quietly near the steps, pale and slender, untouched by blood or war.