To Gojo, Daenerys was like untouched snow—quiet on the surface, but full of buried storms.

  She was curious, insatiably so. Each night, beneath foreign stars and beside warm campfires, she asked everything: about cursed energy, about dragons not born of fire but of will, about domains and techniques, about how Gojo had crossed the world alone—and lived to speak of it.

  But there was always one question that came wrapped in silk and edged in steel.

  “Do you have wives?”

  Gojo blinked. The firelight danced across Daenerys’s face, catching in her silver hair. He didn’t lie.

  “I do,” he said simply.

  The answer cast a fleeting shadow over her eyes, but she didn’t press. Instead, she smiled faintly, nodded, and continued to ask about Sheepstealer’s temperament and whether dragons could ever be taught to love someone.

  Gojo wasn’t blind.

  He could feel the ache beneath her voice—the weight she carried not from strength, but from isolation. For all her titles, Daenerys was still alone. To most, she was just a name, a symbol, a ghost of House Targaryen. A dragon-woman. An heir without a home.

  So when she turned to him one evening, her voice barely above a whisper, and said, “Can we go to Braavos? There was a house there… with a red door and a lemon tree,” Gojo didn’t hesitate.

  He took her by the hand, and they flew.

  When they arrived, Braavos was cloaked in morning mist, the sea lapping against its stones like whispered memory. They found the house easily enough—a forgotten thing, faded and chipped. The red door remained, dulled by time.

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  But the lemon tree was gone. Chopped at the roots, long dead.

  Daenerys stood frozen at the threshold, her hand brushing the old wood. Then she stepped inside.

  The rooms were bare. No laughter echoed off the walls, no sun painted the windows in gold.

  It was just a house now.

  And Daenerys broke.

  She sank to her knees in the dust, hands trembling, her sobs raw and unfiltered. Gojo stood behind her, watching in silence as the floodgates opened.

  “I was always running,” she whispered, between tears. “Always cold… always hungry. Begging for bread while Viserys told me I was meant for crowns and thrones.”

  Gojo knelt beside her.

  “He hit me when I cried,” she said. “And still… I wept when he died.”

  Her voice shook harder now. “I loved Drogo, but I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save Rhaego. My baby came out twisted and dead, and the witch laughed. I burned her for it.”

  She looked up at Gojo, eyes rimmed red, silver hair clinging to her damp cheeks.

  “I have nothing left,” she said. “Just names and ghosts.”

  Gojo wrapped his arms around her without a word, holding her tightly, firmly, as if the warmth in his chest alone could shield her from the memory of a life lived on the edge of sorrow.

  That night, the stars passed overhead without judgment.

  In the quiet of morning, Gojo stirred to find Daenerys beside him. Her hair was tangled, her breath soft against his neck. She looked younger in sleep, less queen and more girl.

  When she awoke, she smiled at him—not the courtly smile of a ruler, but something genuine and fragile. A smile meant only for him.

  “You’re warm,” she said.

  Gojo raised an eyebrow. “I’m always warm.”

  Daenerys sat up and stretched, her mood lighter than he had seen in weeks. “Tell me about Tokyo,” she said. “About your new home. About the dragons and the towers and the snow forests and your sons.”

  Gojo smirked. “Which part? The part with magic? Or the part where the trees whisper and the sky bleeds stars?”

  Daenerys laughed. “All of it.”

  And so he told her.

  Of the dragons nesting beneath the great roots of the tree-town. Of Megumi’s strange, quiet stares. Of Yuji’s laugh echoing across canopies. Of Yuta’s wild eyes as he learned to float. Of Scales, Coals, and Snowylocks watching their children grow.

  Daenerys listened, rapt, her fingers brushing against his as he spoke.

  That night, the house with the red door was no longer empty.

  It was filled with memory again—old and new. Grief and comfort. Loneliness, and the first flicker of something more.

  Something like home.