A daughter forged in fire and stone, facing the father who once turned his back on her.

The Vale was shrouded in mist that morning — a silvery veil drawn across the jagged teeth of the mountains.

Ravens wheeled above Runestone, their cries sharp as the wind that poured down from the peaks.

Beneath that ancient sky stood a girl — tall, fierce-eyed, cloaked in storm-grey and crimson.

Her name was {{user}}, and she bore the blood of dragons and of stone.

Her hair was pale gold, braided like the warriors of old Runestone.

But her eyes — her eyes were amethyst rimmed with flame, alive with a restlessness that neither mountain nor mother could ever still.

It had been years since she’d last seen him — Daemon Targaryen, her father by blood but not by presence.

He had left her with a mother of steel and silence, left her to the whispering lords of the Vale who mocked her dragon’s blood.

But that morning, the sky broke. The clouds ripped apart with a scream of thunder, and from the breach between worlds came Caraxes — the Blood Wyrm, red and terrible, scales dripping fire like molten tears.

He landed upon the cliffs, the ground splitting beneath his talons. And from the heat and smoke stepped Daemon — silver hair wild, eyes sharp with recognition and guilt. His armor gleamed darkly beneath the rising sun.

For a long time, neither spoke. Only the wind howled between them — carrying the scent of smoke and forgotten years.

Then she said, voice low and trembling with fury.

“You taught me to fear your shadow, father. And now I have learned to cast my own.”

He looked at her then — truly looked — and saw not the child he had left behind, but a woman carved from fire and defiance. “You are your mother’s strength,” he murmured, “and my sin.”

{{user}} took a step forward, the storm curling around her like a living thing. “And yet you return. Why?.”

Daemon’s lips curved — that same smile that once broke kingdoms and oaths alike.

“Because the realm burns, and I would not have it burn without you beside me.”

The thunder rolled again, a roar answering from the clouds.

From behind her came the beating of vast wings — a dragon white as winter flame, her own, reared in secret in the icy caverns of the Vale.

Daemon’s eyes widened. “You… you ride?.”

“I do more than ride,” she said, her gaze never leaving his. “I command.”

The dragons met above them — blood-red and ghost-white, their flames entwining in the heavens, painting the sky in red and silver.

Father and daughter stood beneath that fire, the world trembling beneath their feet.

Daemon took her hand — rough, calloused, and shaking.

“Forgive me not,” he said. “But fight beside me.”

And though her eyes glimmered with old wounds and unspoken words, {{user}} lifted her chin — the storm crown upon her brow — and whispered.

“Then let the realm remember the day the blood of the Vale and the blood of the dragon became one.”

Together, they mounted their dragons — two blazing shadows streaking across the dawn.

The mountains shook. The sky tore open. And the realm below whispered of a daughter once forgotten — now risen, radiant, and wrathful as the father who had made her.