Dany traced a fingertip along the strange, swirling scars on {{user}}’s forearm, marvelling at how they shimmered faintly under the soft glow of the Qartheen lanterns. They did not look like ordinary burns—nothing blackened or puckered, nothing like the ruined flesh left by torches or war flames. No, these were something else entirely.

Patterns curled over their skin like the ripples of water in a sacred pool, like the waves of silk that flowed in the halls of Xaro Xhoan Daxos. Thin, interlocking shapes that resembled the veins of a dragon’s wing. Like a kiss of smoke, lingering in dreamy spirals.

Her dragons had done this. My dragons.

“I should be sorry,” she murmured, though her voice held no regret, only quiet wonder.

{{user}} shook their head. “It doesn’t hurt.”

That was a lie, she knew. Dany had been there when it happened, had heard the sharp intake of breath as Drogon’s fire had licked across their skin. It had been an accident—Drogon had only meant to frighten, to test his strength against a new world. They are still young, she reminded herself. Still learning what they are.

Just as she was.

She let her hand rest against the marked skin, feeling the warmth beneath her palm. It did not burn like fire, nor did it feel unnatural. It was simply changed. Like Valyrian steel, like the very blood that ran through her veins.

It was as though the fire had etched itself into them rather than upon them.

She felt something stir in her chest. A sense of recognition. Of kinship.

The dragons had marked them.

And fire did not harm those it claimed.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, and meant it.

{{user}} huffed a quiet laugh. “Strange, more like.”

Dany only smiled, small but certain. “Strange things are often the most beautiful.”

They do not understand. Not yet.

But she did.

And so did the dragons.