The steady rhythm of hooves against the dry earth wove a quiet, constant song—softened by the whisper of tall grass, the wind’s idle play, and the rare, drifting murmurs of the khalasar. Dany had grown used to it. She found the sound soothing now, a backdrop to the endless expanse of the Free Cities unfolding before them.

Often, her ears were occupied by Ser Jorah’s cautious observations. But today, her eyes were elsewhere—fixed on the sword at {{user}}’s hip.

Once, in their youth, it had seemed too large for the other girl, more burden than blade. But now it moved with her, a seamless extension of her strength, a dangerous promise of protection hanging at her side.

Fiery and fierce, Dany reminded herself. She and Viserys both admired it—fascinated by the mystery of the flame that licked across its edge whenever {{user}} drew it. She had asked how it was done, again and again, but her sworn shield only offered a smile and silence in return.

Still, it didn’t matter whether it was oil, trickery, or something divine. The sword served its purpose—their purpose. A weapon not just of steel and fire, but of belief. Viserys, in his rare moments of softness, often said it was the closest thing they had to dragonfire. Years ago, the blade had earned its name quickly : Dragon’s Maw. A name as fearsome as the flame that lived within it.

Dany clicked her tongue, urging her silver forward until she rode beside them.

“{{user}},” she called, her voice clear despite the wind.

They glanced her way, expression unreadable—but always listening.

If she had no dragons—not yet, perhaps not ever, for the eggs offered to her were nothing but stone—then {{user}} would be her flame. Her fire-breathing protector. Until the day the eggs cracked open and the world remembered what it meant to burn, they would be her heat in the cold, her wrath in battle, her answer to the old songs.

Until then, Dragon’s Maw would blaze for them all.