The stone of Dragonstone was colder than any palace in Meereen, colder than the halls of Qarth, colder even than the night winds off the Dothraki sea. It smelled of salt and old smoke, of wet rock and ancient dragons, though no dragon had lived here in a century. Daenerys walked beneath ribbed arches carved like the spines of beasts, her footsteps echoing in a place that had belonged to her family before it had ever belonged to her.

She had imagined this moment since childhood, home and yet the place made her feel uneasy. This was not her home, it never was.

Aegon, her nephew who shouldn't have been among the living, had landed before her. Stormlands, Reach, Crownlands, Dorne… banners rising for a dragon that sat on the throne. The lions were gone from the throne, torn out by war and treachery, and the North was a wound that would not close, now being lead by the illegitimate son of one of those who lead the rebellion against her family.

Daenerys paused before a scorched stretch of black stone, one hand resting against the wall. What would she do now? Who would support her? Then, days later, she received word, a raven had come. Was this the true supporters of the dragon Viserys had talked about? She opened the letter and read the words for herself.