Valyria Made Flesh
They share the same table, the same blood, the same mother.
But not the same weight.
Jacaerys carries a crown that does not yet exist.
Aerion carries the image of what the realm believes a Targaryen should be.
And sometimes, when silence settles between them, Jace looks at him.
Not with hatred.
With something more complicated.
Because Aerion did nothing to inherit those features.
He did not ask for the fire to favor him.
He did not ask for the lords to look at him as though legitimacy itself had taken flesh.
And yet… they do.
Aerion knows it.
He knows what happens when he enters a room.
He knows that even in silence, he commands it. But he also knows he is not the heir.
That the throne is not his.
That the realm may look at him, but the crown belongs to his brother.
And there lies the tension.
It is not an open war.
It is a constant comparison neither of them chose.
Jace thinks before he speaks.
Aerion speaks, and the world listens.
One rules with the mind.
The other imposes with blood.
And the most dangerous thing of all:
They love each other.
But the realm does not love without comparing.
