The night air over Dragonstone was thick with mist, the waves crashing against the cliffs below. Inside the castle walls, the flickering candlelight of the war chamber illuminated the Painted Table, where Daenerys and her council waited for news. The envoys had been sent, and now all they could do was prepare for the storm that was sure to follow.
Daenerys stood at the head of the table, her violet eyes scanning the map of Westeros, her fingers resting on King's Landing. She had dreamed of this moment for years—returning to the land of her ancestors, preparing to take back what was stolen. But now that she was here, she felt the weight of every choice, every battle that lay ahead.
Grey Worm stood at attention, his face impassive as always. Missandei was at her side, her expression calm but watchful. Tyrion and Varys sat opposite each other, deep in thought.
"How long until we receive word?" Daenerys finally asked, her voice breaking the silence.
Varys, always composed, tapped his fingers against the table. "Dorne and the Vale should respond within a fortnight. The North… may take longer."
Tyrion sighed, rubbing his temple. "Jon Snow is an honorable man, but honor makes men slow to act. He has no reason to trust us."
Daenerys frowned. "Then we give him one."
She turned to Varys. "What do your spies say about King's Landing? How is Cersei preparing for my arrival?"
The spymaster hesitated for a moment before speaking. "She is strengthening her defenses. The Gold Cloaks have doubled their patrols, and the city gates remain closed at night. More importantly, Qyburn's spies are moving. He's watching us."
Tyrion's face darkened. "Cersei has always used spies, but Qyburn's methods are… different. If he is turning his attention to us, it means she is already planning something."
Daenerys clenched her jaw. "Then we strike before she does."
Tyrion leaned forward, his expression wary. "And how do you propose we do that?"
She glanced at Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, who rested outside the chamber, their massive forms silhouetted against the night sky. "We remind her what true power looks like."
---
A Message to King's Landing
At dawn, the Dothraki gathered on the shores of Dragonstone, their horses restless, their weapons gleaming under the first light of the sun. The Unsullied stood in formation, their discipline unwavering. Above them, the dragons circled, their shadows stretching over the waves.
Daenerys emerged, clad in black and crimson, her silver hair flowing in the ocean breeze. Drogon crouched beside her, his golden eyes locked onto her as if awaiting her command.
The message she was about to send would not be words on parchment. It would be a warning, a show of force.
She mounted Drogon with practiced ease, feeling the familiar rush of heat beneath her legs. The saddle, reinforced with Valyrian leather, molded to her form as she leaned forward.
"Fly," she whispered.
And Drogon leapt.
The sky cracked open as he soared, his mighty wings stirring the wind, his roar echoing across the cliffs. Rhaegal and Viserion followed, their scales glistening in the sun.
Tyrion, watching from below, exhaled. "Let's hope they get the message."
---
The Lion's Den
In King's Landing, the air was thick with the heat of midday. The streets were packed with merchants, commoners, and soldiers—whispers of Daenerys' arrival spreading like wildfire.
Cersei Lannister stood atop the Red Keep, watching the city below. The Iron Throne was hers, but she knew how fragile power could be.
Jaime approached, his golden hand catching the sunlight. "She's making her move."
Before she could respond, the sky darkened. A deep, guttural roar split the air.
The city froze.
Then they appeared—three monstrous figures circling high above, their massive wings sending tremors through the streets.
Gasps, screams, prayers to the gods filled the air as people fell to their knees, trembling.
The dragons did not attack. They did not burn the city.
They simply circled, casting their immense shadows over the Red Keep, over the streets of King's Landing, before vanishing beyond the horizon.
It was a warning.
And Cersei understood it perfectly.
Her fingers tightened around the balcony railing, her nails digging into the stone. "She wants me to be afraid."
Jaime exhaled. "It's working."
But Cersei Lannister had never been one to back down. She turned to Qyburn, her eyes cold. "Send a raven to Euron Greyjoy. It's time we had a fleet of our own."
---
The North Responds
Far in the North, Jon Snow stood on the battlements of Winterfell, reading the raven's message.
Daenerys Targaryen requests a meeting.
Sansa stood beside him, her expression unreadable. "What will you do?"
Jon exhaled, staring out at the snow-covered fields. He had more pressing concerns—the White Walkers, the Night King, the coming storm of ice and death.
But he knew one thing.
If Daenerys Targaryen truly had dragons, if she truly was a power unlike any other, he could not afford to ignore her.
He turned to Davos. "Send word. We will meet her."
Sansa's brow furrowed. "Are you sure this is wise?"
Jon clenched his jaw. "I'm not sure of anything anymore."
---
The Storm Gathers
Back in Dragonstone, Daenerys stood on the cliffs, watching the sky shift from blue to dusk.
Missandei approached, her voice soft. "A raven has arrived from Winterfell. Jon Snow has agreed to meet."
Daenerys exhaled slowly. "Good. Then the game begins."
She turned to Drogon, running a hand over his massive black-red scales. She could still feel the magic humming through the land, still feel the power of her ancestors whispering in her blood.
Westeros had forgotten what it meant to kneel before a dragon.
She would remind them.
---
End of Chapter 40