The hall at Dragonstone is dim, lit only by firelight. The air hums with tension as Daenerys Targaryen sits tall on her throne, draped in black and red, her expression unreadable.

The heavy doors creak open. Boots echo.

Two Dothraki push him forward—{{user}}, the bastard of the Mad King, silver-haired, violet-eyed, unbowed even in chains. He stands tall, broad-shouldered and battle-hardened, a quiet storm in human form.

Daenerys rises slowly, steps echoing as she descends toward him. The hall falls into silence.

She circles him once, then stops before him, gaze piercing.

“You look like him,” she says. “My father. The same eyes. The same madness simmering under your skin.”

He doesn’t speak. He watches her.

She tilts her head, voice low but burning.

“You clearly carry the blood of the dragon…” She steps closer, close enough to smell ash and salt and steel. “…but do you burn?”