When Leon opened his eyes, all the pain was gone.
The physical agony of drowning—the burning in his lungs, the desperate instinct to breathe that he'd fought down—vanished. The psychological weight of what he'd done, the guilt crushing his chest, the loneliness that had followed him for years... all of it. Gone.
Like it had never existed.
He pushed himself up slowly and looked around.
White. Endless white stretching in every direction. But somewhere in the distance, he could see something. A shape.
He walked toward it.
"Am I dead?"The thought floated through his mind, distant and detached. This didn't look like any afterlife he'd imagined. Not heaven. Not hell—though after what he'd done, that's probably where he belonged. Cold-blooded murder. There wasn't a version of justice that sent you anywhere else.
But still, he walked. Something pulled him forward, irresistible and certain.
As he approached, his eyes widened.
A large round table dominated the space. Dozens of seats circled it, and every single one was occupied.
Men. All with Targaryen features—silver-gold hair, sharp features, eyes that held centuries of history. And Leon knew them. Every single one. Their faces were burned into his memory from years of reading, years of escape into their world.
"It's time."
One of them spoke. Leon's gaze snapped to him.
He knew immediately who it was. Not from appearance—though that matched too—but from something deeper. Something inside him that recognized this man on a level he couldn't explain.
Aegon Targaryen. The Conqueror.
Aegon looked at him briefly, then glanced at two others beside him.
Aenys. Maegor.
Then all three dissolved into particles of light. Brilliant, burning, beautiful. They shot toward Leon like arrows.
"Ughhh!"
The impact drove him backward, feet skidding across the endless white, pain lancing through every nerve. His body arched, his vision went white, and something changed inside him.
Deep.
Like his very soul was being rewritten.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping, clutching his chest. His body wanted to fall—wanted to surrender to the ground and let whatever was happening consume him.
No.
He gritted his teeth. Hard. Planted his hand on the ground and forced himself to stay upright.
Through blurry vision, he watched his skin shift. Pale. Not sickly pale—Targaryen pale. And strands of hair fell across his vision, no longer brown but silver-gold.
He tasted blood in his mouth. Copper and something else.
His eyes closed.
When they opened again, his breath was still gone—but not from drowning.
Softness and warmth.
Lips pressed against his, sealing his mouth, stealing his air in the most intimate way possible.
His eyes widened.
Shiera Seastar.
She was pressed against him, body to body, her lips locked onto his with desperate intensity. Her hands cupped his face. Her silver-gold hair fell around them like a curtain, blocking out everything but her.
Moonlight caught her features through the strands. Perfect and Ethereal.
But that wasn't the problem.
He was choking. Not from lack of air—from something else. Something warm and thick sliding down his throat.
Blood.
She was feeding him blood. Her blood. Dripping from her lips into his, forcing him to drink, to swallow, to take her into himself.
He should fight. Should push her away. Should—
He couldn't.
He was too weak and seemingly too tired.
His body accepted the blood, drank it down, and with every swallow he felt strength returning. Life flooding back into dead tissues.
Then, suddenly, he had enough.
He grasped her shoulders. Shifted their positions with speed and strength that surprised even himself—flipping them so he was above her, looking down, his body pressing hers into the ground.
He didn't care about the surprise.
Didn't care how he'd done it.
He looked down at Shiera, whose lips were now red with her own blood. Her mismatched eyes—emerald and sapphire—stared back at him calmly, breathless but unafraid.
"How was it?" Her voice came soft, slightly winded.
Leon wiped blood from his lips with the back of his hand. Held her gaze.
"The kiss, was wonderful."
Her lips curled at his words.
At his tone. At the look in his eyes—whatever she saw there.
"You died," she said quietly.
Leon turned his head. The river was there, dark and cold, the bridge looming above. He'd fallen from there. Drowned in that water.
He looked back at Shiera. Her silver gown was soaked through, clinging to every curve of her body—and there were many curves. Full hips. Narrow waist. Large breasts pressed against the wet fabric, impossible to ignore.
Silence stretched between them.
"Why?" He asked finally.
Shiera reached up. Touched his cheek with pale fingers.
"I wished to see if it was real."
"What was real?"
"If you were real."
Leon's eyes narrowed.
What the hell was happening?
He had no idea.
But something felt different inside him.
Much different.
Leon pulled back from Shiera and stood up, his movements fluid in a way they'd never been before. He looked at his hands, turning them over, studying them like they belonged to someone else.
His skin was paler. Not ghost-white like Shiera's, but definitely a shade lighter than it had been this morning. As if Targaryen paleness creeping into his complexion.
He brushed his wet hair back from his face—silver-gold strands catching the moonlight—then grabbed the hem of his soaked hoodie and pulled it off. His shirt followed, both discarded on the ground in wet heaps.
His body was paler too. But that wasn't all.
He felt... leaner. More toned. Like he'd been working out for months instead of surviving on pasta and despair. Muscles he didn't remember having shifted under his skin as he moved.
"I met the Targaryen kings," he whispered, the memory surfacing. Aegon. Aenys. Maegor. The round table. The light.
Shiera rose quietly behind him, water dripping from her silver gown, her mismatched eyes fixed on him with an intensity that would have made his heart race before and unable to look at her.
Right now ever, he did feel his heart racing but he remained calm and in control.
"What did you feel?" She moved closer, standing right beside him, her voice pressing. "What did you gain?"
Leon turned to look at her.
For a moment, his thoughts paused. Her beauty was still there—undeniable, surreal, almost painful to witness up close. But instead of the usual flustered panic, he just... appreciated it. Objectively. Like admiring a painting.
Strange. He'd never been able to do that before.
"Three of them vanished," he said slowly. "I absorbed them…"
Shiera stepped closer, now directly in front of him, studying his face like she was searching for something. "What did it feel like? What did you gain?"
Leon considered the question.
Gain. Did he gain anything? He didn't have their memories—not like that strange dream of Daemon. No sudden knowledge of battles or dragons or conquests flooded his mind.
But something was different. He could feel it humming under his skin. A presence. A weight. Three weights, actually, settled deep in his soul like stones in a river.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
Shiera's eyes searched his for another long moment. Then, softly:
"Are you still thinking of ending your life?"
Leon stared at her, his expression twisting as if she had asked him something absurd and stupid.
"No."
He bent down, picked up his drenched shirt, and draped it over his shoulders. Then he turned and walked away from the riverbank.
Behind him, Shiera watched him go.
A slow smile curved her lips. Wider and wider until it became something almost sly.
Then she fell into step behind him, her bare feet silent on the grass, following him into whatever came next.