After months of flight, crossing over mountains and seas, across ruins and cities whose names had long since lost meaning to Gojo, they finally arrived.

  Vaes Dothrak had become a ruin of broken tents and charred bones. Drogo was dead. His khalasar scattered. And Daenerys Targaryen—once a girl sold like chattel—stood alone by a pyre, her silver-gold hair tangled with ash and wind.

  She held a torch in her hand. In front of her, bound in chains and cursing in a dozen tongues, was the crone Mirri Maz Duur.

  Daemon Targaryen dismounted from Sheepstealer with the ease of one who’d done it a thousand times. The dragon snarled, its eyes locking on the old woman.

  “Dracarys,” Daemon commanded without hesitation.

  Flames burst from Sheepstealer’s mouth in a pillar of light and destruction. Mirri Maz Duur screamed once—then there was only fire, and then there was nothing.

  Daenerys dropped the torch in shock and stumbled backward. “What… what is that beast?”

  “Sheepstealer,” Daemon said simply, his armor reflecting the firelight. “You were about to do what we only finished for you.”

  Daenerys looked between the two men. The taller one, dressed in black with a blindfold drawn up over his snowy hair—his face didn’t look cruel, only tired. The other… the other claimed a name she knew only from ancient tales.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “You’re lying,” she said slowly. “Daemon Targaryen died centuries ago.”

  Daemon grinned. “So they say. And yet, here I stand.”

  “And you—” her eyes narrowed at Gojo, “—you said you're my nephew?”

  “I am,” Gojo said. “My mother was your aunt. Lyanna. My father was Rhaegar.”

  Daenerys was pale, shaken. “That makes you… Jon Snow?”

  “I was,” Gojo replied. “Now, I’m something else.”

  The fire roared behind them, casting shadows that danced like spirits from the old tales.

  Daemon stepped forward. “You can come with us, Daenerys. There’s nothing left for you here. The East will eat you alive. You have no army. No allies.”

  “I have a dragon!” she shouted, furious. “You have a dragon. And you want to run? The usurper still sits on the throne. He killed my brother, my family! And you expect me to hide in some icy wasteland?”

  Gojo looked at her with calm eyes. “I’ve been to the heart of that wasteland. It’s more alive than you think.”

  Daemon sneered. “Let us burn the pretenders. The Lannister bastards. The Stag. The old wolf. Let fire reign again.”

  “No,” Gojo said.

  The word cut through the heat.

  Daemon turned to him, displeased. “You’re stronger than them all. You could take the throne in a day.”

  “I didn’t come back to rule,” Gojo said. “I came to stop the world from ending.”

  Daenerys stepped closer, uncertain. “Then what do you want from me?”

  “I want to give you a choice,” Gojo said. “You can stay here, try to rebuild from ashes. Or you can come with us—to the North, beyond the Wall. It’s not safe here. And I won't let you die.”

  She hesitated, chest rising and falling. Her violet eyes blazed with stubborn fury.

  “I will come,” she said, “but only because I want answers. And if I don't like what I find…”

  “You can leave,” Gojo promised. “But you won’t.”

  Daemon rolled his eyes but said nothing more.

  As the pyre smoldered behind them, Gojo offered Daenerys his hand. She took it, fingers trembling.

  And together, they turned to the skies. Sheepstealer roared. Voidwing stirred.

  It was time to leave the ashes behind.