The night had felt endless.
When the first pale light finally broke over the horizon, Rhaego narrowed his violet-slitted eyes against the glare.
He flew high above the open sea, wings beating in slow, steady rhythm, the dark crimson-black membranes catching the rising sun.
No land was visible in any direction, only the endless stretch of blue water and the faint white crests of waves far below.
This is starting to get annoying, he thought.
How much farther until I see any land?
A low grumble rolled through his stomach. He pressed one hand against his belly, feeling the sharp edge of hunger gnawing at him.
The drug they had used still left a bitter taste in his mouth, and the raw stumps where his horns had been throbbed with every beat of his wings.
The pain was dull now, but constant.
He remembered the last thing he had said to Missandei before flying off that evening.
Supper.
The word came unbidden
"See you at supper."
The words sat heavy in his chest. Now the thought of her waiting, of his mother waiting, twisted something inside him.
What are they doing right now? he wondered.
Do they know I'm gone? Is Mother already burning half the city looking for me?
The worry coiled tighter.
He knew Daenerys too well, the fire in her blood, the way grief and rage could push her toward terrible choices.
In the stories he remembered from his old world, she had become something monstrous in the end: The queen of ashes.
He had always wondered if there was another path for her.
What if she could let go of the Iron Throne? What if she could stay here, in the east, and build something new in Meereen instead of chasing ghosts across the Narrow Sea?
The Targaryens had come from the east once. Valyria had been their home before the Doom. Westeros had only been a conquest.
Maybe Meereen could be different.
Maybe they could make it their home, a place where dragons and freedmen lived without the endless cycle of fire and blood.
But how could he even say that to her?
She has sacrificed everything for that throne, he thought, wings cutting through the salty wind.
All the pain, all the loss, all the cities she burned and freed…
If I asked her to stay, would she see it as throwing all of that away?
As if everything she did was for nothing?
The hunger gnawed harder.
His wings were beginning to ache from the long flight. He scanned the horizon again, searching for any speck of land, any shadow that might promise safety.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered.
Not now.
First… survive. Then… get back somehow.
Below him, the sea shifted.
At first he thought it was only the light playing tricks on his eyes, but then he saw them.
Fish.
A whole stream of them, moving together beneath the surface, silver bodies flashing as they followed the current. Large ones too, thick and strong, their shapes cutting through the water like living blades.
His tail flicked sharply behind him. His stomach gave a loud, demanding grumble, the dragon in him rising up with sudden, insistent hunger.
I guess I can make do with sushi, he thought
He angled his wings and dipped lower, skimming just above the surface. The wind whipped spray against his face as he watched the movement below, eyes narrowing, measuring.
Timing.
That was all it was.
His hands spread slightly, fingers flexing. The nails lengthened without thought, white and sharp, catching the light.
Waiting for the right moment.
With a quick, sudden swoop he dove, hands plunging into the water. The sea rushed up to meet him cold and fast.
His claws closed around one of the larger fish. It thrashed violently in his grip, powerful body twisting, scales scraping against his palms.
Rhaego beat his wings hard, dragging himself back into the air in a spray of salt and foam.
Hah! I got it on the first try! Pride flared hot in his chest, childish and bright despite everything.
The fish writhed between his fingers, strong enough to slip free if he loosened his grip for even a heartbeat.
He held it out, studying it for a moment, then drew a breath.
A small burst of flame followed, quick and controlled. The fish blackened along its scales, skin splitting with a soft crackle, the scent of cooked flesh rising into the air.
Not perfect. Still raw beneath.
But good enough.
He bit into it without hesitation.
He tore into it with his teeth, half-dragon hunger overriding any remaining human fastidiousness. The flesh was warm, flaky on the outside, tender and bloody within.
He could feel his body accepting it easily, raw meat had never bothered him the way it would a normal person.
After a while, the worst of the hunger eased.
"Fresh kill is better than starving, not exactly a feast… but it will do." He thought.
He licked the last traces of juice and scales from his fingers, sucking them clean with quiet satisfaction.
For now, at least, the gnawing in his stomach had quieted.
Still flying, wings moving in slow, steady beats, Rhaego looked out across the endless sea once more. The sun was higher now, the horizon still empty of land.
He wiped the last bit of fish from his chin with the back of his hand and kept flying, the taste of salt and victory lingering on his tongue.
But in the back of his mind, the worry remained sharp and constant.
Mother… Missandei… Everyone…What are you doing right now?
The sea stretched on, indifferent.
And high above it, a dragon prince without horns flew onward, alone with his thoughts and the slowly fading echo of his own small triumph.
Rhaego beat his wings twice more, feeling the strain bite deeper into his shoulders with each stroke.
The ache had settled into him now, a slow-burning thing that did not fade.
He exhaled through his teeth and angled upward instead.
Higher.
The air thinned as he climbed, cooler, less forgiving but steadier. The winds shifted there, less chaotic than the restless currents below.
He spread his wings wide.
For a moment, nothing changed. Then the current caught him.
The strain eased. Not gone, but less.
Rhaego let himself glide, making only small adjustments, subtle shifts of muscle and bone to keep his balance. His tail moved without thought, countering the pull of the wind, keeping him steady as the sea rolled endlessly beneath him.
Better.
He had learned this slowly, through bruises and hard landings, through stubborn pride that had once driven him to beat his wings until they failed him.
The sky was not something to conquer. It was something to ride.
Up here, the world felt distant.
The sea below was a shifting blue expanse, broken only by white crests and the long shadows of moving clouds.
No ships. No land. No sign of anything but water stretching to the edge of sight.
He flexed his fingers once, feeling the last trace of fish oil on his skin, and let the wind carry him.
For a while, it was almost easy.
Almost.
The ache did not leave him. It lingered beneath the surface, quiet but patient. His shoulders burned, his chest tight with each breath.
The place where his horns had been throbbed in time with his heartbeat, dull and insistent.
Even the wind could not carry him forever.
Rhaego's eyes swept the horizon again, sharper now, more urgent.
"Come on…" he muttered under his breath. "Something…"
But the sea gave him nothing.
Only distance.
Only silence.
And so he glided on, a dark shape against the brightening sky, carried forward by a wind that did not care whether he lived or fell.