The sky burned. Not with fire alone but with the echo of it, smoke rolling thick and black over the stone towers, embers drifting like dying stars. {{user}} stood at the edge of the high courtyard, cloak snapping violently in the wind, eyes locked on the shape that had collapsed beyond the battlements. One of hers. The name Mother of Dragons had not been given lightly. It had been earned in fire and death, on a pyre meant for mourning. Long ago, she had placed three petrified dragon eggs among the flames of her husband’s funeral, believing what the old world whispered, only death can pay for life. She had stepped into the fire with them, prepared to burn. She had not burned. She had emerged at dawn, ash streaked and reborn, with three living dragons. From that moment, they had bound themselves to her.

Now, standing amid another inferno, watching one of her dragons bleed and suffer, {{user}} felt that same truth coil tight around her ribs. She would not abandon them now. The dragon lay half curled among shattered stone. A wing, once broad and powerful enough to blot out the sun, dragged uselessly through the ash. Its low, wounded rumble vibrated through the ground, through {{user}}’s bones, through her heart. “{{user}},” Simon said, sharp but controlled. “We need to move. Now.” She didn’t turn. Simon Riley stood a step behind her, armor dented and blackened, skull mask streaked with soot. His sword was already red, his shield nicked and cracked from intercepting arrows meant for her. The rest of the guard were falling back, shouting that the enemy was flooding the lower halls. She heard none of it. “That’s Viserion,” {{user}} said quietly. Her voice didn’t shake but Simon knew better. “They won’t fly.”

Another explosion thundered in the distance. Simon moved in front of her without thinking, shield lifting as a rain of arrows hissed overhead. “If you stay, you die.” Her fingers clenched in the fabric of his cloak. “I’m not leaving them.” For a heartbeat, they stared at each other. Then Simon swore under his breath. “Alright,” he said. He turned, barking orders. “Form on me! Shields up, archers, target the ridge. Nothing gets close to the dragon.” Steel rang as the remaining guards snapped back into place, forming a living wall around {{user}} as she ran to Viserion’s side. The dragon lifted its head weakly, golden eye focusing on her at once. A low, pained sound escaped its throat but it leaned into her touch when she pressed her forehead to its scaled snout. “I’m here,” {{user}} whispered. Her hands glowed faintly, heat shimmering around her palms as she pressed them against the torn wing. The air smelled of blood and smoke and magic.

Simon took position just ahead of them, shield planted in the rubble, sword raised. Fire washed overhead as an enemy dragon swooped, but Viserion, wounded and furious, dragged itself upright enough to answer with a blast of flame that lit the night like dawn. Ghost didn’t flinch. Every strike that came near {{user}} met steel. Every scream, every clash, every burst of fire, he held the line. He moved like he was born for it, like the chaos sharpened him instead of breaking him. An arrow grazed his shoulder, he didn’t even look at it. “Nearly done?” he called over his shoulder. {{user}}’s voice was strained, but steady. “They will fly. Not far but enough.” That was all he needed. The moment Viserions wings flexed, still damaged, still trembling, Simon slammed his shield down and shouted for the guards to break formation. Smoke swallowed them as the dragon heaved itself into the air, {{user}} already climbing onto it’s back. Simon caught the edge of a scale, hauled himself up behind her.

As they rose above the burning kingdom, {{user}} looked back once, at the chaos, at the people still fighting below. Ghost leaned close, voice low and unyielding. “You saved them. Let the rest fall to me.” And for the first time that night, {{user}} let herself believe it. Above them, the sky opened, while below, the fire still raged. But the Mother of Dragons lived. And her guard did not fail.