The ground came up fast—a sprawling, dusty plain dotted with horsehair tents and the great, mud-brick palace of Khal Drogo. Drogon’s wings beat a frantic, thunderous rhythm, his claws skidding in the dirt as he landed with a jolt that rattled your bones.

To your left, Rhaegal touched down, Daenerys clinging to his spines, her silver-gold hair whipping in the settling dust. To your right, Viserion landed more gracefully, Jon Snow already sliding from his back, Longclaw in hand, his face a mask of grim confusion.

Before you, the scene was frozen. A wedding party, interrupted. Illyrio Mopatis stood gaping, his rich silks dusty. Beside him, Viserys III Targaryen—younger, thinner, his eyes wide with a mad, avaricious gleam—stared not at the dragons, but at you and your sister.

And there they were. Two girls, barely more than children, clutching each other. One was Daenerys, small and frightened, in a simple linen dress. The other… was you. A mirror from a lifetime ago, wide-eyed and unmarked by war or fire.

Surrounding them, a sea of Dothraki warriors had fallen into a stunned, silent ring. At their forefront, Khal Drogo stood immovable as a statue. He wore painted vest and horsehair bells, his face impassive, but his dark eyes tracked the movement of the great black beast beneath you with the focus of a man assessing a new, unpredictable stallion.