In the heart of the newly built tree city of Tokyo—nestled among the ancient, whispering branches of the weirwood forest—Gojo stood atop a balcony carved from living wood, cradling his newborn son.

  Three infants, swaddled in silken wraps spun with wyrm-hair and tree bark, slept peacefully beside each other. Gojo had named them Megumi, Yuji, and Yuta. His sons. His legacy. Each born of a different mother—Snowylocks, Coals, and Scales—three wives as fierce and loyal as any dragonrider. Each had given him a piece of the future.

  Near the hearth, three dragon eggs sat in a bed of smoldering coals—empty now. All had hatched.

  Daemon Targaryen, reborn in this age through fire and blood, had bonded with Sheepstealer again, the ancient dragon snarling like the mountain storms of old. The bond had been easy—fate, perhaps, or the lingering trace of love. Daemon had once ridden beside Nettles, the girl who tamed Sheepstealer with kindness and hunger.

  "I'm sorry about Nettles," Gojo had said quietly one night, the fire between them casting long shadows.

  Daemon's expression barely flickered. "She did her duty. That is all any of us can do."

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  Gojo understood. Duty had bound him since birth—first as a cursed child of a dying world, and now, as the strongest in a land that bent the knee to dragons.

  Still, there was peace in this treetop city. A moment of stillness.

  But peace never lasted.

  Rumors came from Castle Black—whispers among the traders and wildling merchants who now made the Wall their route. Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt, had married a horse lord—a Dothraki khal across the Narrow Sea.

  The blood of the dragon wedded to a barbarian warlord.

  Daemon spat at the mention of it. "The Dothraki are savages. Raiders and rapists. She is a queen, not chattel."

  Gojo said nothing at first. He had once promised Jon Snow he would protect Daenerys, should the time come. And now, that time had arrived.

  "I’ll go alone," he finally said.

  Daemon raised a brow. “Even the strongest can bleed.”

  Gojo smiled thinly. “No one in this world can harm me now.”

  Since his return from the far north, Gojo had reshaped the cursed energy inside him. His Domain Expansion had fully awakened—reality itself bent within it. He had refined his use of Red, Blue, and Purple into something purer, something almost divine. And more than that, he had taken Conversion—his cursed technique that once only turned matter to energy—and woven it into a barrier technique, layering it atop the barrier around gojo like a second skin.

  Much like the Limitless that once made him untouchable in another life, Gojo had become more than invincible. He had become inevitable.

  Snowylocks kissed his cheek goodbye. Coals clasped his shoulder, and Scales whispered a blessing in Valyrian. His sons slept on, unaware that their father was flying to foreign land.