It had been a long night for the Stormborn tending to his three young dragons in the dimly lit tent. The firelight flickered, casting shadows on their scales as he whispered soft words to each one, as though they were his children. The weight of his loss, Khaleesï’s death and the stillbirth of their child, still lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating.

The flap of the tent shifted, and Jorelle Mormont entered. She watched him for a moment, her gaze lingering on the young king, his features sharp yet still holding the softness of a boy. His posture reminded her former husband of Lynar Hightower—dashing, regal, and yet, kinder and more compassionate. He didnt acknowledge her, just stroking the white and golden dragon. He had named it Viserion, after his dead sister.

"Your grace," Jorelle said softly, stepping closer. "I bring ill news. More of the Dothraki have abandoned you. With Khaleesï Draga gone, they have little loyalty left to your cause."