Gojo sat in the warm quiet of the in the cave of the three eyed crow's new hearth chamber, watching over the three cradles aligned before him. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he reached down and touched the forehead of each of his sons.

  “Megumi,” he whispered to the child in the first cradle, who stirred slightly in his sleep, tiny brows furrowed in stubborn determination even as an infant.

  He turned to the next. “Yuji,” he said softly, brushing a tuft of wild, dark hair.

  And finally, “Yuta,” to the last—a quiet baby, yet his cursed energy pulsed more violently than the others, like a storm behind glass.

  Gojo was pleased. Snowylocks, Coals, and Scales had each given him a child, and the three boys carried strength beyond what this world had ever known. They would inherit more than just cursed energy—they would inherit his will. They would live in a world better than the one he was reborn into.

  Beyond the nursery, three young dragons prowled near the hot springs—hatched from long-slumbering eggs by Daemon Targaryen, who had whispered their true names in High Valyrian and brought them to life with flame, blood, and fireborn loyalty. The largest, a red-scaled beast with a missing fang, curled up near the hearth where Gojo often trained. The dragons were growing fast, and they listened to Gojo's voice as if it were a command from the gods themselves.

  Then came the news.

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  Traders passing through Castle Black had brought whispers from across the Narrow Sea: Daenerys Targaryen, the last known daughter of the Mad King, had been married off to a Dothraki horselord. A khal, they said. A savage. A rapist.

  Daemon had sneered at the mention. “The Dothraki are barbarians. Slavers. Murderers. And this ‘khal’ is no more a king than a butcher with a crown made of bones.”

  Gojo had been quiet for a long moment.

  He remembered Jon Snow’s final words before vanishing into Gojo’s soul: Protect her.

  “She’s still a child,” Gojo said aloud, rising from his chair. “She was never meant for this.”

  “You mean to rescue her?” Daemon asked, arching a brow.

  “I mean to give her a choice.”

  Daemon nodded. “Then we fly.”

  They stood at the edge of the rookery near the cliffs of New Winterfell, where the dragons had made their temporary nest. Sheepstealer waited there, massive wings curled against the wind. Though old and scarred, the dragon still carried strength in every sinew, every muscle.

  Daemon approached the beast calmly. Sheepstealer snorted once and dipped its head, allowing him to climb the saddle fashioned from Valyrian steel-threaded leather.

  “You bonded with him easily,” Gojo said, climbing onto his own smaller dragon, a deep-gray creature named Voidwing. “Was it because of Nettles?”

  For a moment, Daemon said nothing. Then: “Sheepstealer remembers her. She tamed him with kindness. With food. With fire. I tamed him with her memory.”

  Gojo glanced toward him. “I’m sorry for her death.”

  “She did her duty,” Daemon replied flatly, though his voice was lined with old pain.

  “Then we make sure it wasn’t in vain.”

  The sky above New Winterfell cracked open as two dragons took flight—Sheepstealer leading, Voidwing trailing close behind, their wings blotting out the sun. Snowylocks and the children watched from the walls, silent and knowing.

  Across the sea, across continents and kingdoms and prophecy-laced ruins, the Dothraki Sea awaited.

  And within it, Daenerys Targaryen.