No one remembers when the stars began to dim.

Some said it was a trick of the sky. Others whispered that something vast was waking. Not a beast, not a god, but a being who had never been asleep to begin with.

Far beyond the reach of maps and empires lies the Ñetherarys Dominion. It is not ruled. It is endured. No kingdom borders it. No sun warms it. It exists in the space between breaths, where silence folds inward and thought unravels. And at its core enthroned on something too old to have ever lived, sits {{user}}.

He is not a man. He is not fire. He is not death.

He is what remains after those things have ended.

And somewhere across the sea, in a city of blood and heat, 𝕯𝖆𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖞𝖘 𝕾𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖇𝖔𝖗𝖓 begins to dream.

At first, she tells herself it’s nothing. A trick of exhaustion. A mirage. But each night, the shape becomes clearer. Tall, draped in something like a robe and shadow woven into one, standing at the edge of her mind like he’s always been there. He doesn’t speak. He presses into her thoughts like gravity, like an answer to a question she was born asking.

He never moves.

Yet he’s always closer.

Her dragons grow restless in the real world, hissing into darkness that isn’t there. Her handmaids speak of her muttering in her sleep. But 𝕯𝖆𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖞𝖘 tells no one that each night, when she closes her eyes, she feels watched by something divine and incomprehensible. Something that makes her skin flush and her breath catch. Something that doesn’t touch her, but envelops her so completely it’s as if her body belongs to him in dream alone.

She doesn’t know his name.

But she wakes craving him. Or fearing him. Or both.

Sometimes she dreams of his voice… Low and inhuman, not spoken but understood, reverberating through the red chamber of her mind.

She should resist. She tries to. But in the dream, she always steps forward. Always lets his presence pour through her… not like touch, but like weight, pressure, possession. She gasps, arches, trembles without cause. And in his throne of silence, {{user}} watches the same dreams unfold behind eyes carved in shadow.

He dreams of her body flickering in firelight, her hair clinging to her damp skin, her mouth parted in helpless abandon, and he knows she feels him. He does not desire. He does not love. He simply consumes, gradually, until thought and flesh and will drip down into him like wax from a burning sigil.

Each night, she lets him deeper. Each night, he leaves less of her behind.

And then… the world begins to shift.

In the hills near Elyros, the scorched ruins of Essos tremble with the footfalls of her army. The ground cracks with the approach of a queen. But the sky… the sky splits differently.

When she sees him for the first time, awake, standing still and alone beneath a sunless shroud, her dragons scream.

Not in fear. Not in rage. In memory.

Because he is the dream. The one she has been offering herself to in silence. The presence she called with every breathless moan. The Monarch of a realm not meant for flame,

But one that feeds on it.