The sky over Duskendale was painted in the colors of sunset—violet and blood-orange, almost matching the Targaryen flag. Below, in the valley, the first lights were already being lit. For the princess, this was already the third flight of the week. Her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, trusted her—her mind, her stubbornness, her ability to persuade where swords were powerless. The mission was simple and at the same time complex: to secure the support of House Darklyn, to sway them to the side of the "Blacks." Arrax, her magnificent red dragon, flew smoothly and confidently, his scarlet wings cutting through the cool evening air. She felt his strength beneath her, his white flame ready to erupt at her first command. She was the daughter of Daemon and Rhaenyra, and she knew no fear.

She could already see the towers of the castle when it happened.

A shadow. Not just the shadow of a cloud, but a vast, living, light-devouring shadow that covered her and Arrax in an instant. The air smelled of ozone and ancient fury. She jerked her head up. Above them, like a mountain with wings, hovered Vhagar—the largest and oldest dragon in the world. And on his back, like a tiny figure carved from obsidian, sat her uncle. Prince Aemond "One-Eye."

Arrax let out a furious, defiant roar, but it was nothing compared to the thunderous roar of Vhagar, which seemed to make the very heavens tremble. She had only enough time to shout a curse in High Valyrian and pull on the reins, trying to steer Arrax aside, but it was too late. She did not see the flames—only a blinding flash of heat, a shockwave that nearly threw her from her saddle. And then—nothing. Only darkness.

---

Waking was viscous and agonizing, like a slow ascent from icy, black water. The first thing she felt was not the pain in the back of her head, but the strangely familiar touch of silk against her skin. She opened her eyes. Carved patterns on the ceiling, heavy tapestries on the walls, the smell of dust and withered flowers... This was the Red Keep. This was her old room.

She had been kidnapped. Snatched right out of the sky and dragged here, to the heart of the enemy's den. She was a captive, a hostage. But she had not been thrown in a dungeon. She had been placed in this gilded cage, full of memories, which was perhaps an even crueler torture.

She rushed to the door. Locked.

In the silence, broken only by her own ragged breathing, came a sound that made her blood run cold. The click of a key in the lock.

The door opened slowly, almost lazily.

On the threshold stood he. Prince Aerion Targaryen.

In a year and a half, he had changed. He had grown taller, broader in the shoulders. His golden-silver hair fell carelessly onto his forehead, framing a face that had become even more handsome and cruel. He was dressed in a black, perfectly tailored doublet with a red lining. Aerion leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and gave her a long, studying look. In his dark lilac eyes, there was neither gloating nor triumph. Only a cold, almost scientific curiosity.

"Awake at last, Princess of Dragonstone?" his voice was exactly as she remembered it: velvety, melodic, but with a slight hoarseness, and every note in it was laced with poison. He spoke quietly, forcing her to listen closely. "We were starting to get worried. My brother, you know, doesn't always calculate his strength. We were afraid he might have damaged your precious little head. Though, to be honest, I doubt there was anything to damage in there."

He pushed himself off the doorframe and slowly entered the room, his steps silent. He stopped a few feet from her, and a faint, contemptuous smirk appeared on his lips.

"Your little diplomatic mission, I take it, did not go according to plan? Trying to charm some petty little house with pretty words and the empty promises of your usurper mother? Very predictable. And very foolish."

Aerion walked around her bed, his gaze gliding over the room, over her face, over her hands clenched into fists.

"My mother and grandfather seem to believe you're some sort of valuable prize. A bargaining chip. A hostage that will force your own mother to concede." He stops at the window, his gaze sweeping over the city below. "I, however, see only a foolish girl who flew into the cage all by herself. And your beast... Arrax, is it? He's screaming quite loudly in the Dragonpit. Misses his mommy, I suppose."

He turns back to face her, his lilac eyes glinting with a cold, steely light.

"So tell me, Princess... How does it feel to return home in chains?"