The law of the dragon-lords was a law of scarcity, though they ruled the skies. In the high chambers of Dragonstone, love was not given; it was allocated.

To Aegon went the heavy gold of his father’s pride, the inheritance of prophecy, and the right to lead.

To Rhaenys, the youngest, went the sweet, decadent honey of their mother’s doting—every whim answered, every laugh recorded like music.

To you, the second son, went the silence of the long hallways.

You were born between the steel of Visenya and the silk of Rhaenys, yet you belonged to neither. When your cradle was carved from the black basalt of the volcano, no egg was placed beside your small, newborn cheek.

"The blood must not be diluted," Lord Aerion had whispered, his voice carrying through the heavy tapestries where your magical raven—a thing of stitched shadow and stolen breath—sat listening.

"Aegon must have the dragons. The boy is... quiet. Let him find his path in the dust of the library."

You did not cry out for their touch.

Even as a child, when the realization of your isolation settled into your bones, you did not weep. You watched Aegon lift Blackfyre for the first time, his young muscles straining under the weight while your parents cheered.

You stood in the shadow of the pillars, lean grace even before your twentieth year, your silver-gold hair growing long and unbraided, reaching past your lower back like a waterfall of frozen starlight.

You realized very early that hatred was a fire that consumed the hearth. Indifference, however, was a cold obsidian wall. You chose the wall.

While they smelled of horse leather, dragon smoke, and the sharp, sour tang of Valyrian steel, you smelled of crushed dried lilies, salt-brine, and the metallic tang of old ink. You wore robes of heavy, seamless midnight velvet that swept the stone floors, hiding the fact that you carried no daggers, no swords, no iron.

Why should a man carry iron when his very marrow hummed with the blood-magic of the Fourteen Flames?.

Till it happened.

The Theft of the Moon.

The betrayal did not come with a scream; it came with a low, rhythmic thumping of drums during the autumn equinox.

By the ancient rites of the Freehold, you were to wed Rhaenys.

She was the second daughter; you were the second son. For years, you had watched her from afar—not with the desperate longing of a lover.

But with the quiet acceptance of a man waiting for his assigned constellation to rise.

She was beautiful, reckless, and smelled of the wild sea.

But Aegon looked upon her and saw a crown. Visenya looked upon Aegon and saw a throne.

You sat at the long table the night the announcement was made.

Your face was pristine, smooth, and entirely clear of emotion—a mask of pure Valyrian alabaster.

"Brother,"

Aegon had said, his voice deep and resonant with the power of Balerion’s breath.

He did not look you in the eye; he looked at your throat, where the veins beat with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

"The bloodline must be concentrated for what is to come. Rhaenys will share my bed. Visenya will share my rule."

Rhaenys sat beside him, her violet eyes glittering with a cruel, youthful triumph.

She looked at your long, delicate fingers—fingers that had spent the last decade charting the movements of stars and weaving shadows—and she smiled as if she had escaped a dull fate.

She thought you weak because you did not bleed on the training grounds.

"It is as the stars dictate," you replied.

Your voice was a low, melodic baritone that seemed to vibrate the very wine in their silver cups.

It held no anger. No tremor.

Visenya narrowed her eyes, her hand tightening on the pommel of Dark Sister.

"You take this too lightly, brother. A man should fight for his blood."

"I do not fight for things that are already dead to me, sister," you said softly.

You stated the fate, knowing it, and left your portion of the meat untouched.