You stood in the throne room, studying the Iron Throne, the tangled forest of cold blades, symbols of power and danger. Light filtered through the high windows, casting a reddish glow across the stone walls, and the air smelled of metal and cold stone. Footsteps echoed behind you. He did not hurry. He never hurried.

Aerion Targaryen’s voice broke the silence from behind you, calm but firm “One day, I will sit upon it.”

There was no boasting, no threat only certainty in every word. As he stepped beside you, his fingers brushed along one of the throne’s cold blades, and his gaze settled on you. There was no tenderness or flirtation, only the flash of ambition and the fire of desire for power.

Yet there was something else in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable a quiet intensity that was only for you, a hidden flame hinting that his interest extended beyond the throne itself.