Twin Flames

This is the tale that began at the great tourney of Ashford Tourney-the year hedge knights dared to dream too high, princes rode with fire in their blood, and I first understood what it meant to be born a dragon among men who wished to see you burn.

My name is Aelora Targaryen.

Daughter of Prince Maekar of House Targaryen. Granddaughter to King Daeron II Targaryen. Twin to Aerion-my mirror and my shadow. Sister to Daeron and little Aegon. Niece to Prince Baelor Breakspear, heir to the Iron Throne, and cousin to Valarr of the brown hair and careful smile.

We were raised at Summerhall, beneath high towers and hotter tempers. My father, Prince Maekar, believed in discipline as other men believe in gods. My mother believed in silence. My brothers believed in glory.

Aerion believed in destiny.

He says it often enough that one begins to wonder if he has convinced himself. He was born moments after me, though he refuses to admit it. "Together," he insists. "We were born together. We belong together."

He says it the way men speak of prophecies. Of conquest. Of inevitability.

His hair is the pale silver-gold of old Valyria, bright even in shadow. Mine is a honeyed blonde that glimmers gold in the sunlight. Our eyes are storm-blue-restless, watching. When we walk side by side, courtiers stare as though they have glimpsed something out of a history book: the blood of the dragon made flesh.

But blood alone does not make a story.

It was the year a hedge knight named Duncan the Tall rode into legend.

The year when my twin smiled at me in a way that made the air feel thin.

If the singers tell it true, this is a story of a knight and his squire.

They are wrong.

And of the moment I began to wonder whether dragons are born to rule... or born to ruin everything they touch.

If you wish to hear it, I will begin at the start.

Before the events of Ashford.

At the first crack in the shell of destiny Aerion so carefully built around us.

Shall we begin?