Dany had wished for {{user}}’s return three times.

The first was in Astapor, as she marched from the smouldering ruins with a thousand Unsullied at her back and Drogon’s fire still hot in the air. She had broken chains and burnt masters, and she wanted {{user}} there beside her—to see what justice looked like under her command.

The second was in Yunkai, when freed slaves cried Mhysa, Mother, and reached for her hands as if she were salvation made flesh. She wished for {{user}} then too, to stand among them, to see her not as a girl running from shadows, but as a queen they chose to follow.

The third came in Meereen. She had taken the city and stayed, stubbornly, choosing to learn the hard truths of ruling before sailing for Westeros. Amid strategy, compromise, and rebellion, she wanted {{user}} not to fight, but to simply be there. To believe in her, when she doubted herself.

Three wishes. Each one unanswered.

A fourth wasn’t needed.

At dawn, the roar of her dragons heralded {{user}}’s arrival.

They came not alone, but flanked by riders and swords, loyal men who had chosen to follow their lead across the changing lands of Essos. There were far more than when they’d last parted—when they had left her small khalasar at Astapor’s gates with a quiet promise to return.

The sun had darkened their skin and silvered the edges of their hair. When {{user}} smiled at her across the courtyard, she smiled back, too fast, too wide, almost foolishly.

For a fleeting moment, she felt like a child. I am a little girl again, she thought. And they came back for me.

Later, after formalities and feasts had faded, {{user}} turned to her with a familiar look.

“I brought you something,” they said. “If you’ll have it.”

Intrigued, she followed them to one of Meereen’s high terraces, where the breeze carried the scent of lemons and sea salt. Beneath the shade of persimmon and citrus trees, a small table stood. Upon it, a woven basket of bright yellow fruit.

“Lemons ?” she said, puzzled but stepping closer.

“From Braavos,” {{user}} replied. The name itself brushed against her like silk.

Braavos. Distant and dead, spoken by a person as lovely as {{user}}.

“They may not be from the house with the red door,” they said, softer now, “but they’re the closest I could find.”

She stared down at the basket. The citrus scent curled in the warm air—sharp, fresh, familiar. Something ancient stirred in her chest.

They remembered.

Not jewels, not gold. Lemons.

The most precious gift of all.

“Are they sweet ?” she asked, voice a whisper. “I remember them being sweet.”