After months soaring across oceans and scorched lands, Gojo finally arrived at the edge of the red wastes, where the wind carried the scent of death and ash.

  High above the cracked desert floor, a crimson comet streaked across the sky—a bleeding star piercing the heavens. Gojo narrowed his eyes. Another omen, he thought. Or just a sky cut open like everything else in this world.

  Below him, fire danced.

  A funeral pyre had been built in the heart of the Dothraki camp—rough, haphazard, primal. Tied to the pyre was a gaunt woman—Mirri Maz Duur. Atop the pile lay a silent corpse—Khal Drogo, mouth sealed shut by death, and in his arms, a small bundle swaddled in white linen.

  A dead man. A dead child. And nestled between them—three dragon eggs, untouched by flame.

  Gojo hovered in silence as Daenerys Targaryen stood in front of the pyre, her silver-blonde hair matted with dust and sweat. Her violet eyes burned with a fury she could barely contain. Her breath hitched as she stared into the fire, her mind shattered between grief and rage.

  She didn’t even see Gojo descend until a gust of cursed wind snuffed out the flames with a deafening snap.

  The fire died. Smoke spiraled into nothing. Daenerys gasped and whirled around, eyes blazing with confusion and fury. “What did you do?!” she shouted. “Was it her?” She turned to the bound witch, screaming, “What trick is this? What curse have you brought upon me now?!”

  “No curse,” came Gojo’s voice from the smoke.

  Daenerys’s gaze darted toward the sound. Gojo stepped forward, calm and radiant, lifting the blindfold from his eyes.

  Violet met violet.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  White hair glinted beneath the moonlight. His presence hit her like thunder. For a heartbeat, Daenerys said nothing—eyes wide with disbelief, recognition creeping in her bones.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “I am the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Gojo said, his voice like a blade sheathed in silk. “And Lyanna Stark.”

  Daenerys blinked. Her lips parted, then closed. “Impossible,” she said, hoarsely. “Rhaegar’s only children were—”

  “Slain in the sack of King's Landing. I know.” Gojo tilted his head, then rose into the air effortlessly, levitating as gently as drifting snow.

  Then, with a flick of his fingers, Daenerys rose too, her feet lifting off the ground. Gasps rippled through the Dothraki camp. Horses reared. Men screamed of dark magic, of maegi and sorcery.

  Daenerys, wide-eyed, hovered in the air across from Gojo.

  “You want proof?” he said, smiling. “This is mine.”

  He slowly descended, bringing her with him. She stumbled slightly as her feet touched the sand.

  Gojo stepped toward the extinguished pyre. “You can waste those eggs in fire,” he said, pointing to the dragon eggs, “or follow me to Tokyo. I can give them what they need. Not just blood and fire. Purpose.”

  Daenerys trembled. Then tears welled in her eyes. “I thought… I thought it was over. That I’d lost everything.” Her voice cracked. “If there’s a way… if I can have a dragon... just one...”

  “You’ll have three,” Gojo replied. “But not for war. Not yet.”

  “I’ll give you one,” Daenerys said, suddenly firm. “In return. One of the dragons will be yours.”

  Gojo chuckled. “Dragons don’t interest me. I already have four.”

  He turned toward Mirri Maz Duur.

  “You stole her child,” he said flatly.

  The witch hissed something guttural in her native tongue, but Gojo didn’t listen. He simply raised one hand, and fired Red.

  A crimson flare lanced through the air and struck Mirri square in the chest, turning her to dust before her final scream could echo.

  Gojo’s eyes narrowed. “Let Drogo burn. But Rhaego deserves peace.”

  He approached the infant’s corpse and lifted it with reverent care. “He’ll be buried in Tokyo,” he said softly. “Where you can mourn him properly. Where he’ll be honored.”

  Daenerys nodded, lips trembling. “Yes. Thank you.”

  Together, they built a new pyre for Khal Drogo. When the flames caught, Daenerys stood beside Gojo, the three dragon eggs in a satchel at her hip, her face lit by fire and shadow.

  Then they rose into the night sky, Gojo carrying her and the remains of her child, the dragon eggs resting between them.

  Above them, the bleeding star burned ever brighter—witness to a new chapter.