Daemon stood at the edge of the treehouse platform, watching the lands thawing in the distance, arms crossed beneath his cloak. Behind him, the soft crackle of branches bending in the new spring wind echoed like breath returning to a long-dead corpse.

  “We should have killed them all in New Winterfell,” Daemon said flatly, not even turning to face Gojo. “Back when we had the chance. Before they made kings out of cowards and saints out of fools.”

  Gojo joined him at the edge, silent for a moment.

  “I know,” he finally said. “I wanted to believe they’d change… that mercy could be enough.” His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly behind the blindfold. “I’ll make up for it.”

  Daemon grunted. “Make sure you do.”

  Back inside, Daenerys found Gojo by the hearth, already packing scrolls and letters for ravens.

  “I want the Kingslayer,” she said softly, stepping into his space. “And Tywin Lannister. I want them alive. Promise me.”

  Gojo looked into her violet eyes, unreadable. “You’ll have them,” he said, and kissed her.

  The flight to New Winterfell was quiet—eerily so.

  Gojo carried Daenerys in his arms, cutting through the skies like a phantom. Below them, Daemon soared astride Sheepstealer, the ancient dragon’s wings blotting out the sun with each beat.

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  Smoke curled from the beast’s nostrils.

  By the time they neared the keep, New Winterfell had descended into chaos.

  A dragon was landing.

  People screamed, soldiers drew swords, and smallfolk scattered across the courtyards. Sheepstealer slammed down into the earth just beyond the walls, snow melting in waves beneath its claws.

  Inside the Great Hall, Robb Stark stood at the center, surrounded by Northern lords—Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Lord Umber, and more. He had been seconds from accepting the title of King in the North.

  Until Gojo walked through the doors.

  Every head turned. Every lord fell silent.

  Gojo entered dressed in stark white and black robes, Daenerys beside him, her hair braided with tiny dragonbone charms.

  “I am Jon Targaryen,” he said, his voice echoing. “Son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. I have come to claim the Iron Throne—not as a conqueror, but as the last light of the realm.”

  Murmurs.

  A few gasps.

  And then Sheepstealer roared outside, shaking the hall. Dust rained from the rafters.

  “I ride with Daemon Targaryen, a dragon rider,” Gojo continued. “And with Daenerys Stormborn as my queen. The true blood of the dragon has returned.”

  Some of the lords looked toward Robb.

  Gojo turned to him next.

  “I don’t ask for your submission. I ask for your truth. Will you stand with me—your blood—or will you stand aside?”

  Robb’s mouth twitched. He looked to Catelyn, who stared at Gojo like a ghost had walked through her door. Her lips were drawn thin. She said nothing.

  After a long pause, Robb dropped to one knee.

  “The North remembers,” he said. “And the North will follow you, brother.”

  One by one, the bannermen knelt—House Mormont, House Glover, House Tallhart. Even Lord Umber knelt, grumbling curses under his breath. Only Catelyn remained standing, her face unreadable.

  “I hope your fire won’t burn us all,” she murmured to herself.

  Gojo gave her a slow nod. “It will only burn those who deserve it.”