The sun burned high over the cliffs as Rhazal took his first true flight.
I stood at the edge of the high stone platform we'd carved into the bluff overlooking the sea, the wind snapping through my hair. Below, the waves pounded the rocks like a war drum, and far above, Rhazal spun in an elegant spiral, wings glittering green and bronze in the light.
He wasn't the strongest. That was Drakaina. He wasn't the cleverest. That was still Vaedron.
But he was fast. Gods, was he fast.
"Higher," Daenerys called out gently, arm raised as if her voice alone could catch him. Rhazal answered with a sharp cry and rolled through the air, cutting across the sun like a green bolt. Drakaina followed, slower, heavier, but protective. Vaedron stayed perched behind me, tail flicking, unimpressed.
"They're learning each other," I said.
"They're learning us," she replied.
The stronghold was nearly complete. No banners yet, no name carved in stone, but it stood now—three tiers of black walls and walkways clinging to the cliffs, with watchtowers, inner chambers, and a massive circular courtyard at its center. Hidden. Remote. Perfect.
The Dothraki called it the Place of Fire. The Qartheen merchants called it Ghost Haven. Neither were names we chose.
We called it nothing. Not yet.
Let them name it for us.
The outer walls had been finished in obsidian-colored stone, with the inner tier covered in scaffolding where Essosi masons labored under golden banners provided by Illyrio's trade vessels. Fresh grain and meat came by barge from Qarth, though Daenerys insisted that one day the land around us would feed our dragons. I believed her.
We had begun storing steel. Arming riders. Drilling Dothraki in unfamiliar formations.
The sea air was thick with salt and the sound of hammering. Home was being built from silence and smoke.
I sat that evening with parchment spread before me—dozens of scrolls in my own hand. Plans for irrigation. For food storage. For livestock pens that could hold beasts large enough to feed dragons.
We would not conquer by fire alone. Fire burned fast and left ash. I wanted roots. Roads. Dependable coin.
Daenerys entered the room without sound, as she always did. A faint smile played at her lips.
"You work more than any queen I've known."
"I've never known a queen," I said, setting my quill down.
"You've known one."
I looked at her, smiled. "True."
She leaned over my shoulder, brushing a kiss just beneath my ear. "They sent word from Astapor. The envoy has landed."
"Already?"
"They bring a gift."
I raised an eyebrow. "If it's another lizard that doesn't breathe fire, I'm sending it back."
She grinned. "It's not a beast. It's a priestess."
Her name was Melyria of Volantis, robed in red and gold, with copper bells in her hair and skin like polished onyx. She came on a black ship bearing no flags, escorted by three Unsullied in gleaming bronze.
She bowed before us in the inner hall without fear, even when Drakaina lifted her head and hissed.
"I saw you in flame," she said.
I exchanged a glance with Daenerys.
She continued. "One born in blood. One born in shadow. One born in light. And the fourth, the hidden flame."
"The fourth?" I asked.
Melyria bowed her head to me. "You, Lady Aelya. You were not in the prophecies. But now the fire speaks your name."
I kept my voice steady. "And what does it say?"
"That you walk with fire and yet are not burned. That you will wake what others forgot. And that you will ride the one who is more."
Vaedron made a low growl behind me. She looked at him and smiled faintly.
"The blue one is quiet," she said. "But he is listening."
Daenerys narrowed her eyes. "Why now?"
"The stars have changed," Melyria replied. "And the shadow that once fell over the world has begun to crack. The stallion who mounts the world is not who we thought. You are both his blood, but only one will carry the fire into the storm."
"And who is that?" I asked.
Melyria looked at me, then Daenerys.
"Together," she said. "But not equal. One heart. One flame. Divided only in body."
The Dothraki eyed her with open suspicion. Ser Jhogo warned me she had been seen speaking alone with the firekeepers near the central hearth. Daenerys dismissed the concern, but I took it seriously. Fire priests did not travel without purpose.
That night, Daenerys and I sat on the cliffs, wine between us and dragons circling above.
"Do you trust her?" she asked.
"I trust her fire more than her words."
"She knew your name."
"She's not the first. I paid a red temple in Lys to forget it once."
Dany laughed softly. "You're dangerous."
"I have to be. You get to be loved. I get to be feared."
"You think they don't fear me?"
"They worship you."
She looked at me carefully, then leaned in. "And what do you do?"
"I worship you," I said without hesitation. "But I also fear what you could be without me."
She kissed me then—not hungrily, not desperately. But with fire.
The kind that builds slowly. The kind that doesn't burn out.
Viserion's egg stirred the next morning.
Only once.
But we both felt it.
And the wind shifted.
That same morning, Melyria sent for me in private. I met her in the narrow temple she had begun to build on the south side of the fortress—barely a single stone circle, but already marked with fire glyphs and red sand.
"You seek what was lost," she said. "You carry old blood, but your flame is new."
"What do you see?" I asked.
She placed a bowl of oil on the altar, lit it, and whispered in Valyrian.
The fire danced.
"The sea that smokes," she said. "And beneath it, wings asleep. Forgotten. Twisted. Waiting."
I inhaled.
"Valyria."
She nodded. "The old empire holds more than ghosts. Your blood calls to theirs. The fire obeys you. You could wake them."
When I returned to our chamber that night, Daenerys was watching Viserion's egg.
Still.
Silent.
But warm now.
I kissed her cheek.
"We're not done," I said.
She turned. "With what?"
"Dragons."
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