Across the Narrow Sea, the air was thick with the smell of spice and horse sweat. Daenerys Targaryen looked out over the vast, grassy plains of the Dothraki Sea. She was no longer the frightened girl sold to a warlord; the weight of the dragon eggs in her silk-lined chest felt like a heartbeat. She could feel the fire in her veins, a dormant power waiting for the right moment to burn the world clean.

Deep in the crypts beneath the castle, the statues of the Stark kings watched in silence. The air grew colder, and a thin layer of frost began to coat the stone direwolves. The game had begun, not with a roar, but with the soft rustle of a page turning and the distant, rhythmic drumming of an army that did not breathe.

Ned Stark descended the stone stairs to meet them. The man bowed low, his voice a rasping whisper. He spoke of shadows in the woods, of eyes that glowed like blue stars, and of a king who was losing his grip on the realm. Ned took the book, his fingers tracing the embossed sigils on the cover.