Mark
There had been a sky once.
A real one.
Blue over Chicago. Burning red over shattered cities. Black and torn when Viltrumites fought.
Now there was only screaming wind.
I remember Angstrom's face — twisted with grief and madness — portals tearing open around us like wounds in reality. I remember punching him. I remember him throwing me.
Not through a wall.
Through worlds.
My universe was already dying when he did it. Cities broken. Friends dead. Blood on my hands that wouldn't wash off no matter how fast I flew.
Then the sky changed.
Cold air slammed into me. I was falling. No portals around me. No shattered skyline. Just clouds — thick, grey — and something ancient rising beneath me.
A massive stone structure.
Dark as a night.
For a split second, I wondered if this was another nightmare Angstrom cooked up.
Then I hit.
The impact should've killed anything short of a Viltrumite. Stone shattered. Earth caved in around me. The shockwave rippled outward. I heard distant screams, the roar of enormous creatures answering the tremor.
Pain flared through my ribs. Even for me, that one hurt.
I coughed. Blood filled my mouth. That was new.
I lay there for a moment in the crater I'd made, staring up at a pale sky that didn't belong to any Earth I knew.
Voices.
Different language at first — harsh, sharp syllables — then another tongue I understood.
Boots scraped against stone.
"It is a man, Your Grace!"
Your Grace?
I forced myself to sit up. My head spun. My suit was torn across the chest, mask cracked.
Okay. Breathe.
Not dead. Not home. Definitely not Chicago.
I pushed myself to my feet slowly, swaying just a little.
Armored men stared at me like I'd crawled out of hell. White cloaks. Swords half drawn.
Behind them stood a group dressed in black — silver hair, pale faces. Royal posture. Dragons roared somewhere beyond them, the sound vibrating in my bones.
I pulled off my mask. No point hiding.
Every eye widened.
"What is this place?" I managed, coughing again. My throat burned.
No one answered.
One older man stepped forward, lean and sharp-eyed — dangerous in a different way than the armored guards.
"What are you?" he demanded.
Not who.
What.
I didn't feel like explaining Angstrom Levy, alternate universes, and how I'd just watched my world collapse.
Instead, I floated.
Just a few feet off the ground.
Gasps. Shouts of "Sorcery!"
Instinct. I shot upward into the sky, needing space — needing to breathe — and hovered high above them.
Dragons actual fucking dragons a massive dome structure roared back at me. Huge, winged, prehistoric power.
Okay. Definitely not Kansas.
I dropped back down, landing lightly this time a few paces from them.
Fear rolled off the guards in waves. Swords fully drawn now.
One of them barked, "Who are you?"
I swallowed. My chest still hurt.
"My name is Mark Grayson," I said. "And I'm not from here."
Silence.
The older man narrowed his eyes. "What sorcery did you use to fly?"
"No sorcery," I replied, too tired to sugarcoat it. "I can fly because I can. I'm half Viltrumite. Half human."
That meant nothing to them. I could see it in their faces.
A man with a crown — this had to be the king — studied me carefully.
"How can you fly without wings?" he asked.
Because my father comes from a planet of conquerors who can cross galaxies.
Because gravity doesn't mean much to me.
Because I've killed people who could shatter moons.
"I just… can," I answered, and even I heard how hollow that sounded.
I looked at them — really looked.
Silver hair. Purple eyes. Dragons.
This wasn't just medieval Europe. This was something else.
"I don't know how I got here," I said more calmly. "But I'm not your enemy. We can talk. I'll answer your questions. You answer mine."
The guards shifted nervously.
The crowned man finally spoke. "Very well. We shall speak in the Red Keep."
Red Keep.
Sure. Why not?
Another older man — thin, calculating — looked horrified at the decision.
But the king had already turned.
I followed.
I didn't know where I was.
But for the first time since my world burned, I wasn't hearing screams.
And that almost scared me more.
Rhaenyra
The smoke from the pyre clung to everything.
To my hair. My dress. My lungs.
My mother's dragon circled above as the flames consumed what remained of Aemma Arryn. The heat stung my face, but I did not look away.
"Dracarys," I had said.
My voice had not broken.
Not then.
The dragonfire roared. My mother turned to ash.
I felt hollow.
Beside me stood my father — Viserys I Targaryen — silent in his grief. My uncle Daemon Targaryen watched the flames with unreadable eyes. Otto Hightower stood rigid as a tower of stone.
Then someone muttered, "Seven hells… what is that?"
I turned.
Something burned in the sky.
At first I thought it a falling star — an omen, perhaps. The gods were cruel enough today.
But it grew larger.
Closer.
My father shaded his eyes. "It looks like… a person."
Daemon snorted softly. "Perhaps a dragon dropped its meal."
But it came too fast.
Too straight.
It struck the earth beyond the Dragonpit with a thunder that shook the stones beneath our feet. The dragons roared all at once, a chorus of fury and fear. The ground trembled as though the gods themselves had struck it.
Kingsguard moved immediately.
"Your Grace, you must—"
"No," my father ordered. "We will see what this is."
Otto objected at once. "It is not wise—"
"If it can harm a king in King's Landing, we must see it," my father said.
I moved with them despite a white cloak barring my way.
"It is not safe, Princess."
"I am a dragonrider," I snapped. "Do not treat me like a child."
We approached the smoking crater.
Guards stood at its edge, pale.
"It is a man, Your Grace!"
Daemon scoffed. "You are mad."
But I stepped forward and looked down.
A man lay in the shattered earth.
Clothed in strange, tight garments unlike any armor or cloth I had seen. A mask covered his face.
He moved.
Coughed blood.
And stood.
He should have been pulp.
Instead he stood.
"How in the hell…" someone whispered.
The man removed his mask.
He was young. A few years older than I, perhaps. Dark hair. Blue eyes — almost like a Baratheon's.
He looked at us with confusion rather than malice.
"What is this place?" he asked.
In the Common Tongue.
My breath caught.
Daemon stepped forward slightly. "What are you?"
Instead of answering, the man rose into the air.
No dragon.
No wings.
He simply… floated.
Gasps broke around me. A guard cried, "Sorcery!"
He shot upward into the sky faster than any arrow.
Fear coiled in my stomach.
Flying was ours.
It was what made us closer to gods.
And here stood a stranger who needed no dragon.
He returned just as swiftly, landing lightly before us.
The Kingsguard formed a wall.
"What are you?" one demanded.
"Sorry," the man said, voice strained. "My name is Mark Grayson."
A foreign name.
"What sorcery lets you fly?" Daemon pressed.
"No sorcery. I'm half Viltrumite. Half human."
The words meant nothing.
My father studied him. "How can you fly?"
"I just can," he answered, not proudly — simply stating fact.
He looked lost.
Not dangerous.
Lost.
"I don't know how I got here," he continued. "But we can talk. I'll answer your questions. You answer mine."
Silence fell heavy between us.
Dragons rumbled inside the Dragonpit.
At last my father spoke. "Very well. You will come to the Red Keep."
Otto looked as though he had swallowed poison.
The stranger nodded once. "Good."
As we turned, I could not stop myself from looking back at him.
He walked without chains.
Without fear.
And I felt something I had not felt even during my mother's burning.
Not grief.
Not anger.
Wonder.
If he could fly without a dragon…
What else could he do