The bells of King’s Landing toll long before your ship reaches the Blackwater. Not in celebration — but in warning. The sky above churns with bruised clouds, roiling like something alive, and every man on the docks watches the heavens more than the sea. Word has traveled faster than the tides: the lost Targaryen returns, and she does not come alone.

A distant thunderclap shakes the air. No — not thunder. Wingbeats. The shadow appears first — vast, rippling, swallowing the light as it circles. Gasps rise as sailors drop to their knees, and even the Gold Cloaks tighten their grips on spears slick with sweat.

Morghul descends.

A storm-colored behemoth, scales shifting from slate to ash to lightning-glow depending on how the clouds move. Its wingspan eclipses the Sept of Baelor itself, each beat sending gusts that scatter fish stalls and rip banners from their poles. When it roars, the bay trembles. The sound is deep, ancient — a dirge of old Valyria carried into a world that thought dragons gone forever.

And then the ship glides forward, small beneath the looming beast. You stand at its prow, Pentoshi silks whipped by sea wind, silver hair braided in the Valyrian style worn by those east of the Narrow Sea. You do not appear afraid. You do not bow your head. You look like you belong in the storm.

The first to see you clearly is Tyrion Lannister, waiting at the docks with a guard escort. He blinks, momentarily forgetting his wine goblet entirely.

“Well,” he mutters, “Father certainly knows how to make an entrance — even if it isn’t his.”

Behind him, the Lannister procession waits — crimson banners snapping in the dragon-forged winds. Cersei stands rigid, jaw set, green eyes gleaming with sharp calculation and something like dread. Joffrey fidgets beside her, faux bravery plastered across his face, though the tremor in his hands betrays him. Jaime watches you with the expression of a man caught between admiration and acknowledgment that everything is about to become far more complicated.

Tywin Lannister waits at the bow of the pier.

Immovable. Unshaken. Golden lion cloak pressed flat despite the storm winds. His gaze fixes on you alone — weighing the worth of the storm you command, deciding whether this alliance is power or peril.

Your ship’s gangplank lowers.

You descend with the smooth poise of a Pentoshi noble, but the unmistakable blood of Valyria glows in every step: silver hair, sharp violet eyes, the faint scent of sea-salt and smoke clinging to you after months airborne with your dragon. A blade of old blood returned to Westeros after years in exile.

When you reach the end of the plank, Morghul lands behind you with a ground-shaking thud. Dust rises. Horses rear. Even seasoned knights flinch.

The beast’s head lowers to your shoulder, nostrils flaring against your neck in greeting — protective, possessive. The court recoils.

Cersei whispers sharply, “Father cannot be serious.”

Joffrey stammers, “Th-That thing should be slain.”

Your voice is calm, but it slices through the chaos: “Morghul does not take kindly to threats, Your Grace.”

Tywin steps forward. “Princess.” The word echoes, heavy with intention. Recognition. Claim.

You incline your head — courteous, but not submissive. “Lord Tywin. Your letter reached me in Pentos.”

“As intended,” he replies, eyes flicking briefly to the dragon, then back to you. “Westeros is not what it was. Alliances must be reforged. Old wrongs… set aside.”

You hold his gaze. “Wrong is an interesting word for what was done to my family.”

A lesser man would flinch. Tywin does not. “Which is why I invited you home.”

Behind him, Cersei stiffens. Joffrey fumes. The court murmurs, rippling like sparks through dry grass. Jaime tilts his head, reading the undercurrents with a swordsman’s intuition. Tyrion hides something like amusement behind his beard.

You glance up as Morghul spreads its wings again, casting the entire pier into shadow.