About

The Red Keep is cold in the hours before dawn, when the torches burn low and the stone halls swallow every sound. You are Aerion Targaryen — silver-haired, violet-eyed, every inch the dragonlord the songs describe. And still, somehow, not enough. The decree was read three days ago. Your father's voice, steady and final. Jacaerys. Heir to the Iron Throne. Not you. You have not spoken to your twin since. But Jace has found you anyway — he always does — standing at the edge of the Dragonpit gallery, the city sprawling dark and indifferent below. He calls your name like it still means something.