Chapter 1:
Drogon was tired of flying, but he knew he had to go all the way to the end of the Jade Sea.
He had been flying for over 350 hours, stopping only to eat and sleep, but barely doing any of either.
The Jade Sea was a treacherous place for most seaworthy travelers. By flight however it was something else all together, seeing as no one knew how far the Jade Sea stretched out for, save except for Dragons and a few of the first First Men.
The truth is somewhere after Asshai and the Shadow Lands, there is a rift in the ocean which turns from turquoise blue to reddish muddy brown. This separation was more than just currents and temperatures, but a tear in the fabric of space itself. Because of this unknown fact, most people, probably all people who travelled to the Mothowanan Gate were likely, if not guaranteed to perish.
Truth be told, those that had made the journey far beyond the breaking point were always astonished to learn that the sea did not end, it did not stop, it kept going as if forever. There was no way this could humanly be possible, and so they would lose their minds before ever realizing that they weren't even in the World anymore. Rather they were on some other planet, mostly made of water, in which such mysteries existed that dragons were a just the tip of the sword awaiting there.
But even dragons had moved across the ethos and been taken to several worlds across the spire of reality, so not many of his kinds existed at all.
His kin belonged to The World as it is known by the Valerians, or rather the Targaryen but not always.
The men that were able to brave the endless ocean beyond the rift even before the Andals even existed is a story that isn't much told in the annals of history, but if they had been more than just a footnote, it would be written that these men died to capture just a few of the eggs that had been left unattended for a short while and upon arriving in the Asshai, they used blood magic to tether the souls of a single family to those of the dragons within the eggs. The Targaryens.
Of which Dany had been the last.
Aegon Targaryen, who was known to the world as Jon Snow, had seen to her end, and dispatched his own bond with Drogon by killing his mother. There was no amount of magic that could keep that tether alive; he did Aegon a favor when he had spared his life, a thing he had wished he didn't have to do, but he was beholden to, due to Aegon's father and what he had done a long time ago for his kin.
These were the things that Drogon thought of as he flew above fog covered and mud colored water. He daydreamed of coming across Aegon again so that he could chew him down like sweet billy goat's marrow and blood.
But that chance would never come if he were successful at Mothowanan, seeing as it would change everything... forever.
Drogon checked his left anterior claw for what seemed like the hundred-thousandth time and felt around for the small, frail, and wilting body of his mother Dany. She was still there in the sense that she had all her limbs in place (this was absolutely crucial for what would come later), but she was also decaying rapidly and flesh was starting to open up all around.
He fought the urge to eat her.
After a moment, Drogon saw what looked like land, but which he dismissed as a trick of the light. Then, slowly at first and then more and more, hills, mountains and slopes began to appear. This was very possibly the island of Saatim, if his heading was correct, which it almost always was.
Saatim was small, a good hiding spot for treasure which is exactly what it was used for in its early days. Then, after having been used for the purpose of building the gate, no one on any of the worlds crisscrossing the Spire dared come looking for it again.
Now he just had to find it.
His nostrils flared and gusts of air came out, he needed to be ready so he checked himself internally; all of his battle scars were relatively healed save for the loss of Viserion and Rhaegal which he was still mourning and would continue to do so for another thousand years if he was lucky to live that long.
As he scanned the landscape, the entrance to the gate became visible and he began his decent.
He checked his Gwilsh, the fluid sloshing around in the sack next to his liver, which humans and such might call fuel. He had always had more than enough, or at least enough to burn whole cities to the ground with. But this was a different game altogether. This was not a game of thrones, but one of time and space.
It would be quick and extremely difficult - and holding a reward unlike anything any being, living or dead, had ever seen before.
It was a portal into the past, one where his beloved mother might have lived her life, happily, along with Kahl Drogo and her their children; far across the grass sea, away from the musings of people who sit on iron and blood.
