Daenerys and Andrew soared over the Shadow Lands, where the world ends in black peaks and whispers. Vharaxes and Drogon flew through blood-red skies, carrying two monarchs with no crowns, only purpose.
They landed at the outskirts of Asshai. Few dared tread there—but those who did whispered of them: The Flamebringers.
In the shadows, a priestess awaited. Her name was Nyra, clad in black silk and flame tattoos. "You are the fire foretold," she said. "But fire unshaped still burns."
Andrew saw something in her eyes. Knowledge. And danger.