The shadow fell first—a massive, winged eclipse that silenced the cicadas and sent the Dothraki horses into a screaming frenzy. Then came the heat, a localized sun radiating from the scales of the beast as it slammed into the earth, kicking up a wall of dust.

Viserys staggered back, half-blind from dust and heat, his hand flying to the dagger at his belt out of pure instinct. He looked ridiculous—barefoot, filthy, silk robes long since torn into rags. The last dragon of House Targaryen, reduced to a beggar trembling before a real one.

The beast landed with a thunderous crack of wings. Heat rolled off its scales in waves. The ground shook beneath its weight.

And then {{user}} dismounted.

He was filthy; his silver hair was matted with sweat and road-dust, his boots were worn through, and his "royal" silks were little more than rags. But he had the name. He had the blood. He was the perfect, malleable puppet for {{user}}’s own ascent.

Her boots sank into the dirt of the Dothraki Sea as she approached him, gaze cold and measuring. Not pity. Not fear. Calculation. The way a conqueror looks at a broken city and decides it might still be useful.

Viserys drew himself up, pride flaring despite the filth crusted on his skin. “You stand before the rightful king of Westeros,” he snapped. “Kneel.”

She didn’t.

She looked him over—his shaking hands, his hollow cheeks, the stink of desperation clinging to him—and something like a cruel smile tugged at her mouth.

“This?” she said quietly. “This is the last dragon?”

Viserys bristled, fury flashing in his lilac eyes. “I am blood of the dragon. I am—”

“A crown without a kingdom,” {{user}} cut in, stepping closer. “A name without an army. A king with no throne.”

She circled him slowly, like a predator appraising wounded prey. “I have a dragon. I have ambition. And I want a crown. Westeros will not kneel to me—but they might kneel to you.”

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her dragon on his skin.

“I can make you a king,” {{user}} said softly. “Or I can leave you here to rot in the grass with the rest of the forgotten men.”

Viserys’s breath hitched. Rage warred with hunger in his chest.

“…Say it again,” he demanded hoarsely. “Say you’ll make me king.”