Daenerys loved Gojo’s new home.

  It was a strange and wondrous place, unlike anything she had seen in Essos or Westeros. Cold winds howled outside, but within the great tree-town of Tokyo—among its winding bark tunnels and warm wooden halls—it was always cozy, always safe. The ancient trees hummed with soft cursed energy that crackled in the hearths, gently lighting the homes and warming the air with a low, steady rhythm.

  Here, the sky was always visible through leafy skylights, and dragon wings occasionally soared across it like shadows of gods.

  The Children of the Forest, once whispered of in fearful stories, welcomed Daenerys without malice or suspicion. They spoke in melodic tongues and walked softly through the tree-vaults, their eyes glowing with a subtle, timeless knowledge. They respected Gojo, even if they didn’t fully understand him, and that trust extended to her.

  Gojo’s three sons—Megumi, Yuji, and Yuta—were delightful to watch. Megumi was silent and calculating, always watching with calm eyes. Yuji was energetic and tried climbing everything, while Yuta clung to her like a duckling, babbling in a mix of high Valyrian and Gojo’s strange dialect. They weren’t hers, but she found herself doting on them.

  And then there was Daemon.

  Meeting Daemon Targaryen was like stepping into the pages of legend. Daemon was bold and sharp, his eyes full of fire and secrets, a man who had known war, rebellion, and dragons intimately. He treated her as kin—Targaryen blood, through and through—but there was a look in his eye when he watched her. A weight. An expectation.

  Daenerys didn’t yet know what he wanted from her… but she suspected it wasn’t just loyalty.

  Still, she couldn’t help but marvel at Sheepstealer—Daemon’s monstrous dragon, vast as a fortress, every breath a wildfire waiting to be unleashed. Despite its terrifying presence, Daenerys felt no fear.

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  Especially now that her own dragons had hatched.

  Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion. They were still small, clinging to her shoulders or nesting near the warm roots beneath the tree-town, but she loved them already. Drogon, dark and fierce, had bonded with her the most. His heat soothed her when she slept, and his little snarls made her laugh.

  These are blessed days, Daenerys often thought. Here, I am not running. Here, I can be someone new.

  But peace is never eternal.

  One afternoon, while walking back from the dragon roosts, she felt it—an aura of cursed energy so dense and angry that it made her stumble. She followed it, her heart racing, until she found Gojo standing on a terrace carved into one of the ancient trees.

  He was clutching a letter. Or rather, crushing it slowly in his gloved hand.

  Beside him stood Daemon, arms folded, face grim.

  Gojo’s shoulders were tight with tension, his jaw set in silence, eyes hidden beneath his blindfold. But even that couldn’t mask the fury radiating from his body—it warped the very air, cracking the bark beneath his feet.

  Daenerys took a step closer, but Daemon intercepted her gently and guided her back.

  “It’s from Riverrun,” Daemon murmured, his voice low. “News from the South. Ned Stark… Gojo’s foster father. He was executed. By the boy king, Joffrey Baratheon.”

  Daenerys blinked.

  Ned Stark.

  The man who had supported Robert’s Rebellion. The man who helped drive her family from the throne. She had grown up with his name laced in hatred, whispered alongside usurper.

  And yet…

  She looked past Daemon at Gojo—the strongest man in the world, who had crossed oceans for her, who made gods tremble and cursed spirits flee.

  This man was hurting.

  And she loved him.

  Daenerys stepped forward, brushing past Daemon, her steps quiet. She wrapped her arms around Gojo from behind, pressing her cheek to his back, feeling the heat and the tremble just beneath his skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know what it is to lose everyone. I’m here.”

  Gojo didn’t move at first. But then his hand relaxed, and the crumpled letter fluttered to the floor like falling ash.

  He turned, and Daenerys looked up into his hidden gaze. Without a word, she rose to her toes and kissed him, soft and slow.

  It was not a kiss of fire and hunger—but of warmth and shelter.

  A reminder: You are not alone.

  And for a moment, the winds outside the tree-town howled quieter, and the dragons above stilled in their flight.