Chapter 1: Drogon's Journey
The dragon flew west, his shadow stretching long over the scorched plains. Beneath him, the earth turned to ash and stone, a reflection of his grief. Drogon carried her in his claws, limp and broken, her silver hair stained red where the blade had struck. The winds of the Narrow Sea howled as they passed, but the dragon did not pause, driven by a need he could not name.
The skies over King's Landing had darkened when she fell. The bells had tolled, ringing out over the ruins, but the cries of the dying had drowned them out. Drogon's cries had drowned them out. Now, silence reigned, save for the beating of his wings and the distant roar of the wind.
The Mother of Dragons was cold in his claws, her warmth fled, her fire extinguished. Yet Drogon flew, drawn not by instinct but by something deeper, something ancient and primal. He did not know the lands he crossed—endless waters giving way to deserts, deserts giving way to jungles, and jungles to shadowed mountains. The world beneath him changed, but the weight in his heart remained.
In Asshai, they awaited her.
The city sat at the edge of the world, cloaked in shadow even at the height of day. Its towers were black, built of stone that seemed to drink in the light. The people of Asshai moved like wraiths, their robes trailing in the dust. They spoke in whispers, their voices low and reverent. They had seen her coming—not with their eyes, but in fire and smoke.
Inside a temple older than the Seven Kingdoms, a woman knelt before an altar of flame. Her face was obscured by a veil of scarlet silk, and her voice carried the weight of prophecy as she chanted in the language of fire.
"Azor Ahai," she murmured. "The Lightbringer, born of flame and shadow. She is not done. Not yet."
The flames danced before her, twisting into shapes. A dragon. A silver-haired woman. A city in ruins, its people screaming. The Red Priestess raised her arms, her voice rising with the flames.
"She will rise again, for the Lord of Light is not yet done with her."
The shadows behind her moved, coiling like serpents, as the sound of wings filled the air. The priestess's lips curved into a smile beneath her veil. "She is here."
The dragon's arrival shook the city.
The people of Asshai emerged from their homes, eyes wide as they looked to the skies. Drogon circled the temple, his roar splitting the air. The flames in the Red Priestess's altar leapt higher, licking at the ceiling. She did not flinch.
"Bring her," she commanded, her voice soft but firm. "Bring her to me."
Drogon landed in the temple courtyard, his wings folding tight against his sides. His golden eyes fixed on the priestess as she approached, unafraid. The Mother of Dragons lay cradled in his claws, her hair like molten silver in the moonlight. The priestess's breath caught as she beheld her.
"Daenerys Stormborn," she whispered. "Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons. You have traveled far, but your journey is not yet over."
Drogon lowered his head, his breath hot against the priestess's face. She reached out, her hands trembling, and touched the still form of Daenerys Targaryen. Her skin was pale, her lips tinged with blue, but her beauty remained unbroken.
"She was betrayed," the priestess said, her voice thick with sorrow. "As all saviors are. But the fire within her is not yet extinguished."
The priestess turned to the shadows, where her acolytes waited with vessels of oil and flame. "Prepare the altar," she commanded. "The Lord of Light demands her return."
The ritual began as the city watched.
The temple courtyard filled with the scent of burning oils and the sound of chanting. The flames rose high, casting long shadows across the black stones. Daenerys's body lay on the altar, her hair fanned out like a silver halo.
The Red Priestess moved around her, anointing her brow, her lips, and her heart with oil. She spoke in the language of fire, her words rising and falling like the waves of the sea.
"From darkness to light," she intoned. "From death to life. The fire consumes, but it also renews."
Drogon watched, his great head low to the ground. His tail lashed, stirring the ashes at his feet.
The priestess plunged her hands into the flames, drawing them out unburned. She placed her hands on Daenerys's chest, pressing hard against the wound that had taken her life.
"Rise," she commanded, her voice echoing across the courtyard. "Rise, Daenerys Stormborn. Rise, Queen of Ashes. Rise, Mother of Dragons!"
The flames engulfed the altar, roaring like a living thing. The people of Asshai gasped and fell to their knees, shielding their eyes from the brightness. Drogon roared, a sound that shook the very stones of the city.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a gasp, soft but undeniable.
Daenerys's eyes flew open, wide and unseeing. Her chest heaved as she drew in her first breath, her lips parting in a cry that was equal parts pain and wonder.
The Red Priestess smiled, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "Welcome back, my queen," she said.
Daenerys Targaryen had returned.