One second you were bleeding out beneath a shattered banner — the next, you were knee-deep in mud, your rifle still smoking in your hands. Overhead, a dragon’s roar split the sky, wings blotting out the sun.

Around you? Men in black-and-red armor bearing the three-headed dragon. Banners snapping in the wind. Fire in the distance.

And descending through smoke and ash —

A dragon far too large to be real.

Its scales were dark, edged in crimson like banked embers. When it landed, the earth shook. Upon its back sat a prince with silver hair and a stare sharp enough to cut steel.

You knew that face.

This was Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to Rhaenyra Targaryen — fire and blood made flesh.

…So why the hell is he looking at you like you’re the answer to a war council he hasn’t spoken aloud?

He dismounted smoothly, boots sinking into mud, dragon rumbling behind him.

“You there—stranger.” His voice was calm, but it carried like a blade drawn in silence. “What weapon do you hold? No bow strikes so thunderously.”

His violet eyes scanned you, sharp and unreadable.

“Speak,” he warned softly, one hand resting on his sword. “Before my men decide you are Green.”