Dawn broke over the Dothraki Sea in shades of gold and crimson, painting the endless grass in colors that reminded Angelus of fire.
She'd left the camp before first light, slipping away while most of the khalasar still slept off the previous night's revelry. A few sentries had seen her go—impossible to miss a dragon, even a small one—but none had tried to stop her. Word had spread quickly about the bargain she'd struck with Drogo, and the Dothraki seemed content to let her prove herself.
Time to deliver on my promises, she thought, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from too many days of inactivity. Her body was still far from healed—the wings especially, membranes thin and weak where they should have been strong enough to catch hurricane winds—but she could move without pain now, could run if she needed to, could fight if she had no other choice.
The grassland stretched before her in every direction, an ocean of green and gold that swayed in the morning breeze. Somewhere out there were herds of wild horses, packs of wolves, the massive hrakkar lions that the Dothraki prized above all other prey. Normal animals, mundane creatures that would feed the khalasar and prove her worth as a hunter.
That was what she'd promised Drogo. That was what she needed to deliver.
But as she moved deeper into the grass, putting distance between herself and the camp, Angelus found her senses reaching out for something else entirely. Her magical reserves were still dangerously low, but she could feel the faint pulse of her Observe ability stirring—the instinct that had helped her identify threats and opportunities across a hundred dying worlds.
If this world has any magical creatures at all, she thought, I need to find them. Mundane prey will keep Drogo happy, but it won't help me recover. I need something with power in its blood—something I can consume and absorb.
The Dothraki Sea had never hosted dragons in the show's canon. Westeros had been the domain of the Targaryens and their mounts, while Essos had only known them through Valyria's long-dead empire. But that didn't mean the eastern continent was empty of magic. The show had hinted at things—shadow assassins and blood magic and gods that might or might not be real.
And this isn't just a TV show anymore, Angelus reminded herself. This is a real world with real rules. Just because the cameras never showed something doesn't mean it wasn't there.
She settled into a hunting pace—not quite running, but covering ground faster than any horse could match. Her claws churned the earth as she moved, leaving deep furrows in the grass that would be visible for miles. Let the Dothraki see her tracks. Let them know their dragon was doing exactly what she'd promised.
The morning wore on. She flushed a herd of wild horses from a shallow valley and brought down the slowest of them with a single lunge, her jaws closing around its neck before it could scream.
SNAP!
The kill was clean, efficient, exactly the kind of hunting the Dothraki would appreciate. She ate enough to fuel her healing, then dragged the rest toward a landmark she could find again later.
First delivery secured, she thought, wiping blood from her muzzle. Now let's see what else this grassland is hiding.
---
She found the first sign around midday.
It was subtle—a patch of grass that had been flattened in a distinctive pattern, the earth beneath it scored by something with claws larger than her own. Angelus crouched low, her nostrils flaring as she analyzed the scent trail.
Blood. Old blood, maybe two days stale, with an undertone of something that made her scales prickle with recognition. Not horse blood, human blood, or anything that belonged in a world that was supposed to be mundane medieval fantasy.
Magic, she thought, and felt her pulse quicken. Something magical came through here.
She followed the trail, her senses sharpening as the scent grew stronger. The grass around her was showing signs of damage now—not just flattening, but actual destruction, as if something had torn through without caring what it trampled. Whatever had passed this way was big, aggressive, and completely uninterested in stealth.
The trail led her to a ravine, a deep cut in the earth where a seasonal river had once flowed. The walls were steep and rocky, providing natural shelter from the wind and sun. A perfect place for a predator to make its lair.
Angelus stopped at the edge, looking down.
And her mind went completely blank.
No way. No fucking way.
The creature sprawled across the ravine floor was the size of a cart horse, with a body that combined the worst features of an eagle and a lion. Tawny fur covered its hindquarters, while dark feathers armored its chest and forelegs. Its head was pure raptor—curved beak, fierce golden eyes, the kind of face that belonged on a coat of arms or a nature documentary about apex predators.
A griffin.
An actual, honest-to-god griffin.
That's not Game of Thrones, Angelus thought, her mind racing. Griffins aren't part of Westeros or Essos. They're—
The memory surfaced like a bubble rising through dark water. Lazy afternoons in her apartment, controller in hand, guiding Geralt of Rivia through monster-infested swamps and war-torn cities. The satisfying crunch of a silver sword cutting through supernatural flesh. The bestiary entries she'd read a hundred times, memorizing weaknesses and behaviors because that was what you did when you wanted to beat the game on Death March difficulty.
The Witcher.
I'm not just in Game of Thrones. I'm in a fusion world—Game of Thrones and The Witcher smashed together into something that shouldn't exist.
The griffin raised its head, those golden eyes fixing on her with predatory intensity. It had been feeding on something—she could see the remnants of a kill beneath its claws, bones picked clean and scattered across the ravine floor.
Okay, she thought, forcing herself to focus. Panic later. Right now, there's a magical creature between me and recovery, and I remember exactly how to kill it.
Griffins in The Witcher 3 were aerial predators, fast and aggressive, capable of diving attacks that could one-shot an unprepared player. They were weak to hybrid oil and Aard, the telekinetic blast sign that Geralt used to knock enemies off balance. Their favorite tactic was to take flight, circle overhead, and dive on their prey from above.
Angelus didn't have hybrid oil. She didn't have Aard. And she definitely couldn't fly—not yet, not with her wings in their current state.
But she had something the games had never accounted for: ten thousand years of combat experience against creatures that made griffins look like pigeons.
The griffin screamed—a piercing cry that echoed off the ravine walls—and launched itself into the air.
SCREEEEEEEECH!
Here we go.
---
The first pass nearly killed her.
Angelus threw herself sideways as the griffin dove, its talons raking through the space where she'd been standing a heartbeat earlier. Wind buffeted her as the creature swept past, close enough that she could smell the rot on its breath and see the intelligence gleaming in those golden eyes.
It's testing me, she realized, rolling back to her feet. Seeing how I react, figuring out if I'm prey or a threat.
The griffin climbed, wings beating powerfully as it circled back for another pass. It was faster than she remembered from the games—much faster—and it moved like something that never met anything that could challenged it.
Let's change that.
Angelus let the fire kindle in her throat, stoking it hotter than she had since arriving in this world. It hurt—her magical reserves screaming in protest at the drain—but she forced the flames higher, brighter, until her scales glowed with contained heat.
CRACKLE-FZZT
The griffin dove.
Angelus didn't dodge this time. Instead, she planted her feet, lowered her head, and breathed.
KSSSHHHH-WOOSH!
The fire that erupted from her jaws wasn't the apocalyptic inferno she'd once wielded but it was enough. A concentrated lance of flame that caught the diving creature full in the chest, sending it tumbling off course with a shriek of pain and surprise.
Fireproof feathers, Angelus noted, watching the griffin crash into the ravine wall. Figures. Witcher monsters are always resistant to the obvious solutions.
But the impact had stunned it. The creature was struggling to right itself, wings beating unevenly as it tried to regain its bearings.
Angelus didn't give it the chance.
She crossed the distance in three bounding strides, claws tearing furrows in the rocky ground. The griffin saw her coming and lashed out with its forelegs, talons that could disembowel a horse slashing at her face. She ducked under the strike, letting the claws scrape harmlessly across the armored ridge of her skull, and drove her shoulder into the creature's chest.
THWOOMP
The impact lifted the griffin off its feet, slamming it back against the ravine wall with enough force to crack stone. Before it could recover, Angelus was on it—her jaws clamping around its throat, her hind claws pinning its wings, her weight pressing it into the earth.
The griffin thrashed, screaming, its talons raking bloody furrows across her flanks. The pain was distant, irrelevant, just another sensation to be processed and discarded. She'd fought things that could rewrite reality with a thought. A pissed-off cat-bird wasn't going to break her concentration.
She bit down.
CRUSH!
The griffin's struggles weakened, then stopped. Angelus held on for another thirty seconds, making sure, before finally releasing her grip.
Clear, she thought, stepping back to examine her kill. The creature's blood was steaming where it pooled on the rocks, thick and dark with an iridescent sheen that marked it as magical. One griffin, deceased. Cause of death: picking a fight with something older and meaner.
Her flanks were bleeding freely, the griffin's talons having cut deeper than she'd realized. But the wounds were already closing, her regeneration working faster than it had since the transit. Not back to normal—not even close—but better than yesterday.
The fire, she realized. Using that much magic actually helped, somehow. Like exercising a muscle that's been atrophied.
And now she had an entire griffin to consume.
---
Dragon digestion was a remarkable thing.
In her first life, Angelus had read fantasy novels where dragons hoarded gold or slept for centuries or breathed fire without any apparent fuel source. As a dragon herself, she'd learned that the reality was both simpler and more complex. Dragons didn't eat for sustenance the way mundane creatures did—they ate for power. Every magical creature she consumed added to her reserves, every drop of enchanted blood fueling the furnace at her core.
The griffin was small potatoes compared to some of the things she'd devoured over the millennia. Watchers that could swallow stars. Demons that existed in seventeen dimensions simultaneously. Gods—actual gods, or things close enough to gods that the distinction didn't matter—who'd thought themselves immortal until she'd proven them wrong.
But in her current state, with her reserves nearly depleted and her body struggling to maintain its basic functions, even this modest meal was a feast.
She ate methodically, starting with the organs—always the most magically dense—and working her way outward. The flesh tasted like copper and lightning, sharp and electric on her tongue. With every bite, she could feel her reserves growing, the ember at her core brightening into something that might eventually become a flame again.
That's... actually significant, she thought, pausing to assess herself. Her wounds had closed completely now, the bloody furrows on her flanks reduced to faint scars that would fade within hours. Her scales felt stronger, more resilient, and when she flexed her wings experimentally—
She blinked.
Her wings had grown.
Not dramatically—maybe a few inches of additional span—but enough that she could feel the difference in how they caught the air. The membranes were thicker, too, the tears and weak spots that had plagued her since the transit finally starting to heal properly.
The griffin's magic, she realized. It's not just replenishing my reserves—it's accelerating my physical recovery. At this rate, I might be able to fly again within a week.
The implications were staggering. If every magical creature in this world provided a similar boost, she could potentially recover in months rather than years. All she had to do was keep hunting, keep consuming, keep growing.
And if this world contained Witcher monsters alongside its Game of Thrones politics...
Nekkers, she thought, the memories flooding back. Drowners. Werewolves. Fiends. Leshens. An entire ecosystem of magical creatures, all waiting to be hunted.
Waiting to bedevoured.
She finished the griffin, leaving only bones and feathers, then took a moment to let the meal settle. Her body thrummed with new energy, her senses sharper than they'd been since the transit. When she spread her wings experimentally, she could feel them responding properly for the first time—still not strong enough for sustained flight, but getting there.
One griffin consumed, she thought, turning back toward the camp. A few dozen more creatures like that, and I'll be back in fighting shape.
But first, she needed to report her success to Drogo. And more importantly, she needed to talk to Daenerys.
---
The sun was setting by the time Angelus returned to the khalasar.
She'd retrieved the horse she'd killed that morning, dragging it behind her with her tail as proof of her hunting prowess. The Dothraki who saw her approach stared openly—at the prey she carried, at the blood drying on her scales, at the subtle but noticeable changes in her bearing. Word spread quickly, and by the time she reached the center of the camp, a crowd had gathered to see the dragon's first tribute.
Drogo was waiting for her.
The Khal stood before his tent, arms crossed, watching her approach with that calculating gaze she recognized. His bloodriders flanked him, hands resting on their weapons, but their posture was curious rather than hostile.
Angelus dropped the horse at his feet.
"Hrazef," she said, her Dothraki improving daily. Horse. "For the khalasar. More tomorrow."
Drogo studied the kill, then studied her. His eyes lingered on the fresh scars across her flanks—scars that were already fading, healing faster than any natural wound should.
"You fought something," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"What?"
Angelus considered how to explain. The Dothraki had words for dragons, for lions, for the beasts they knew and understood. But they didn't have words for griffins—creatures that shouldn't exist in this world, according to the lore she remembered.
"A monster," she said finally. "Something from beyond the grasslands. It won't be troubling your people anymore."
The murmuring from the crowd intensified. Monsters were rare in Dothraki territory—the horse lords had driven most dangerous creatures away generations ago—but they weren't unknown. And a hunter who could bring down monsters was worth far more than one who only killed horses.
Drogo nodded once, slowly.
"Zhavorsa," he said, and this time the word held something it hadn't before. Not just acknowledgment, but genuine respect. "You hunt well."
It was, Angelus suspected, the closest thing to a compliment the Khal was capable of giving.
"I keep my promises," she replied. "Tomorrow, I hunt again. Soon, your khaleesi will have reason to be proud of the alliance her marriage has brought."
She turned and walked away before he could respond, leaving the horse for his people to butcher. The encounter had gone well—better than expected, actually. Drogo was starting to see her value, starting to understand that the bargain he'd struck was weighted in his favor.
Now she needed to find Daenerys.
---
The girl was waiting for her.
Daenerys had claimed a spot at the edge of the camp, away from the noise and chaos of the main gathering. She sat alone, wrapped in a rough blanket against the evening chill, her silver hair catching the last light of the setting sun. When she saw Angelus approaching, she rose to her feet.
"You came back," she said in Valyrian. There was something in her voice that might have been surprise, or relief, or both.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I didn't know what to think." Daenerys wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "After last night, I thought... I don't know what I thought. That it was a dream, maybe. That I'd imagined the whole thing."
Angelus settled onto her haunches, bringing herself closer to the girl's eye level. "It wasn't a dream. And I'm not going anywhere."
Daenerys studied her for a long moment, those purple eyes searching for something Angelus couldn't identify.
"Why?" she asked finally. "You said you could sense the fire in my blood, that you wanted someone to fight beside. But there must be others with Targaryen ancestry—people who aren't being married off to horse lords in the middle of nowhere. Why me?"
It was a fair question. And one that Angelus had been asking herself since the moment she'd first seen the silver-haired girl at the wedding feast.
"Because you're here," she said slowly. "Because you're the one who stepped outside your tent when a dragon called your name, even though you were terrified. Because when I told you that your brother was a fool, you didn't defend him—you got angry that I was telling you something you already knew."
She paused, choosing her next words carefully.
"I've lived a very long time, Daenerys. Long enough to know that bloodlines and birthright don't mean anything on their own. What matters is what you do with what you're given—whether you let your circumstances define you, or whether you rise above them."
"And you think I can rise above this?" Daenerys gestured at the camp around them, at the life that had been forced upon her. "I'm a prisoner dressed up as a bride. I have no power, no allies, nothing but a brother who'd sell me again if he thought he could get a better price."
"You have me."
The words came out before Angelus could stop them, carrying a weight she hadn't intended. Daenerys went still.
"I'm offering you a partnership," Angelus continued, pushing past the moment. "Not just an alliance of convenience, but something real. In my homeland, there was a tradition—a bond between dragon and human that went deeper than loyalty or friendship. It merged souls, shared power, created something stronger than either party could be alone."
"A pact," Daenerys said softly.
Angelus felt her scales prickle. "You know the word?"
"There are stories. Old stories, from before the Doom—about Valyrian dragonlords who bound themselves to their mounts in ways that went beyond simple taming. Most people think they're just legends now."
"They're not legends. Or if they are, they're legends based on truth." Angelus leaned closer. "I can offer you that bond, Daenerys. Not today, not tomorrow—you're not ready yet, and neither am I. But eventually, when we both have the strength to bear the cost, I can make you something more than a frightened girl with dragon's blood. I can make you a queen."
Daenerys's breath caught. "At what price?"
"Everything has a price. The pact requires sacrifice—something precious, something that defines who you are. For you, it would mean giving up your reliance on Viserys. Accepting that he can't save you, can't help you, can't give you the future he keeps promising. It would mean standing on your own."
"That doesn't sound like a sacrifice. That sounds like freedom."
"Does it?" Angelus tilted her head. "He's your brother. The only family you have left. Are you really prepared to cut that tie? To become the kind of person who doesn't need someone like Viserys?"
Daenerys was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Can I... can I touch you?"
The request caught Angelus off guard. "Why?"
"I want to know if you're real. If any of this is real." Daenerys laughed, a fragile sound that held no humor. "I've spent my whole life being told stories about dragons—about my family's legacy, about the power we used to have. And now there's one standing in front of me, offering me everything I've ever wanted. Part of me is sure I'm going to wake up and find out it was all a fever dream."
Angelus considered the request. Physical contact between dragon and potential pact-partner was... significant. It created connections, stirred instincts that predated conscious thought. In her current weakened state, she wasn't sure what effect it might have.
But looking at Daenerys—at the desperate hope in those purple eyes, the trembling hands she was trying so hard to control—Angelus found she couldn't refuse.
"Fine," she said. "You can touch me."
Daenerys stepped forward slowly, hesitantly, like she expected Angelus to change her mind at any moment. When she was close enough, she reached out with one shaking hand and placed her palm against the scales of Angelus's chest.
The world shifted.
---
It wasn't pain, exactly. More like pressure—a sudden awareness of something vast pressing against her consciousness, seeking entry. Angelus's instincts screamed at her to pull away, to break the contact before whatever was happening could complete itself, but she held her ground.
What—
Images flooded through her. A burning city, towers collapsing in flames. A silver-haired woman on a dragon's back, screaming in rage and grief. Three eggs turning to dust as fire consumed everything they touched. A throne made of swords, melting, running like water as the heat intensified—
No, Angelus realized. Not my memories. Hers. Or... not memories exactly. Possibilities. Futures that might have been, paths that haven't been taken yet.
She was seeing the story that would have unfolded without her intervention. Daenerys's story—the one the show had told, the one that ended in fire and madness and a knife between her ribs.
Not this time, Angelus thought fiercely. Not if I have anything to say about it.
The pressure eased. The visions faded. And in their place, Angelus became aware of something new—a thread, thin as spider silk but stronger than steel, connecting her to the silver-haired girl who stood frozen with her hand against Angelus's chest.
A link, she thought, marveling at the sensation. Not a full pact—the sacrifice hasn't been made—but something. A connection. A promise of what could be.
Daenerys gasped and stumbled backward, her face pale. "What was that?"
"The beginning," Angelus said. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—deeper, richer, resonating with power she'd thought lost. "We've started something, you and I. It's not complete yet—it can't be, not without the sacrifice—but the foundation is there."
"I saw... things. Fire and death and..." Daenerys shook her head, as if trying to clear it. "Were those real?"
"They were possible," Angelus replied carefully. "Futures that might have happened. But futures can be changed, Daenerys. That's why I'm here."
Daenerys looked at her hand, then back at Angelus, her expression shifting from fear to wonder.
"I can feel you," she whispered. "Not clearly, not like hearing words, but... it's like there's a warmth at the edge of my thoughts. Something that wasn't there before."
"The link works both ways." Angelus focused inward, reaching for that gossamer thread, and felt an answering pulse of emotion—confusion, fear, but also hope, and underneath it all, a fierce determination that burned like kindled flame. "I can feel you too."
She took stock of her own condition and felt her breath catch.
Her wings. The membranes that had been weak and torn since the transit were strengthening, thickening, the damage that should have taken weeks to heal closing before her metaphorical eyes. And her magical reserves—still far from full, but noticeably higher than they'd been before the contact.
The dragonblood, she realized. Daenerys's connection to draconic power. It's feeding me somehow, accelerating my recovery even faster than consuming the griffin did.
"What's happening?" Daenerys asked, apparently sensing her reaction through the link.
"You're helping me heal," Angelus said, trying to keep the wonder out of her voice. "Your blood, your connection to dragons—it's resonating with my nature, boosting my recovery. I wasn't expecting... I didn't think it would work this quickly."
She spread her wings experimentally, and for the first time since crashing into this world, they felt right. Strong enough to bear her weight. Strong enough to fly.
"I think," she said slowly, "that I owe you a proper demonstration of what a dragon can do."
Without waiting for a response, she launched herself into the air.
---
Flight.
It had been so achingly long since she'd felt the wind beneath her wings, the earth falling away beneath her, the absolute freedom that came with mastering the sky.
She wasn't at full strength—not even close. Her wings ached with the effort, and she could feel her reserves draining faster than they should have. But she was flying, actually flying, and for a few glorious moments she forgot about pacts, the prophecies, the terrified girl with silver hair. She forgot about dimensional transit, the lost power and the weight of ten thousand years pressing down on her soul.
She was just a dragon, dancing with the wind.
Below her, she could see the khalasar spreading across the grassland like a living carpet—forty thousand riders and their families, their horses and slaves and herds. She could see Daenerys, a tiny figure with silver-white hair gleaming in the fading light, her face turned upward to track Angelus's flight.
And spreading out around her, faint but unmistakable now that she knew what to look for, she could sense the magical signatures scattered across this impossible, fused world. Creatures that shouldn't exist, waiting to be found. Waiting to be hunted. Waiting to fuel her recovery and restore her to a fraction of what she'd once been.
The Witcher is here, she thought, cataloging the sensations. Which means other things might be too. Lord of the Rings had magic—rings and wizards and creatures of shadow. If this world merged Game of Thrones and The Witcher, why not more?
What else is hiding out there, waiting to be discovered?
She didn't know. But she intended to find out.
Angelus banked into a long, spiraling descent, riding the thermals down toward where Daenerys waited. The flight had cost her—she could feel the fatigue setting into her wings, the drain on her partially-replenished reserves—but it had been worth it. She could fly again. She was healing. And she had a partner with dragonblood and an uncertain future that she was determined to reshape.
She landed softly beside the silver-haired girl, folding her wings against her shoulders.
"That was..." Daenerys shook her head, apparently unable to find the right words.
"Just the beginning," Angelus promised. "This link between us—it's going to grow stronger over time. And when we're both ready, when you've made your choice about the sacrifice..."
She let the implication hang in the air.
"What about Viserys?" Daenerys asked quietly. "If he's the sacrifice, does that mean..."
"It means you need to decide what he's worth to you. Not as a brother—as a chain. As the voice in your head telling you that you're only valuable as a bargaining chip." Angelus met her eyes. "The pact doesn't require his death, Daenerys. It requires you to let go of what he represents. Whether he lives or dies after that is... well. That depends on him as much as anyone."
Daenerys was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"I'll think about it," she said. "But not tonight. Tonight, I just want to... I don't know. Process everything."
"Fair enough." Angelus settled onto her haunches, her body grateful for the rest. "I'll be here when you're ready to talk more. In the meantime, I have hunting to do and promises to keep."
She watched Daenerys walk back toward the camp, that silver-white hair catching the last rays of the setting sun, and felt the gossamer thread between them pulse with shared emotion.
One griffin, she thought, tallying her progress. A link with a girl with dragon's blood and a future that doesn't have to end in fire and madness.
Not a bad start.
The stars were beginning to emerge overhead, familiar patterns in an unfamiliar sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the grasslands and the mountains and the seas, other threats were stirring. The White Walkers in the far north. Whatever Witcher monsters lurked in the wild places of Essos. And perhaps—if this world was as fused as she suspected—things even stranger, even more dangerous, from franchises she hadn't yet identified.
But those were problems for another day. Right now, she had a khalasar to feed, a girl to protect, and a body that was finally starting to remember what it meant to be a dragon.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, the real work begins.
---
End of Chapter Two