Work Text:
Valar morghulis!
All men must die!
Missandei’s voice is sweet and strong even in the shackles of imprisonment. Standing tall on the stone gates of King’s Landing.
All men must die!
Daenerys had heard this saying so many times during her time in Essos. She remembers a conversation shared between her and her scribe. A lifetime ago–
When Westeros seemed so far and Astapor still practiced the ways of slavery. Before she had trod the great cities of Essos beneath her dainty feet and became the Breaker of Chains.
Mhysa, her freedmen had exalted her.
Mother–
Mother of dragons!
Mother of monsters!
Missandei has just been sold to her by Kraznys and Dany had freed her once the man had been out of sight.
“I can give you freedom, but not safety,” Dany had warned. “I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed.”
“Valar morghulis,” Missandei had said in High Valyrian. “All men must die,” Dany had agreed, “but we are not men,”
But is it not just ‘Valar morghulis’
All men must die, yes, but all men must serve too.
Valar dohaeris,
All men must serve!
Missandei is staring at her with a tense throat and expectation in her eyes. Her scribe wants a response.
Daenerys stares at her with wide eyes and a dry mouth and a breaking heart. The wind sings shrilly and her ears ring.
The Dragon Queens voice is hoarse when she answers, “ Valar dohaeris!!”
I will serve, she pledges to her friend.
Missandei smiles. Sweet and wide and filled with pride.
Dany does not look away. She does not wince when the sword cuts through the neck of the kindest human she had ever been blessed to know. When the sick sound of her head and body thumping to the ground reaches her ears; she breathes in sharply, forcing the bile down her throat.
She will have the Lion Queen’s head.
She will take it all. Cast down the pretenders and melt down that blood-soaked throne.
The Targaryen's had made the throne as a symbol of their power. And it had destroyed them. Dragons had danced for that iron chair, and it had been their great downfall.
Dany will not let it destroy her.
She orders her bloodriders to collect Missandei’s body.
She dresses the body herself.
Her Dothraki handmaidens warn her. “ It is bad luck to touch the dead Khaleesi! It is known!”
“I do not care,” she snaps at them. Superstitions will not keep her from her friend.
They burn her on the grassy cliffs of Dragonstone, on a pyre that had been built by her own hands. Greyworm stands next to her with tight lips and anger dancing in his eyes.
“She will be avenged,” Dany reaches out to grab his arm. Anger and grief coat her broken voice,
“I swear it,”
Two of her sweet children were gone. Viserion had been lost fighting for Northmen who would never understand his sacrifice, and Rhaegal had been shot out of the sky by selfish men with fickle ambitions. Jorah was gone and now Missandei was too. Her loyal unsullied captain was all she had left. He alone was what remained of her handpicked family–
Varys had gone to Jon, and she scoffs at the absurdity; a eunuch placing importance on a cock . And Tyrion looks at her with frightened eyes.
He thinks me mad.
I have done no worse than Jon or the Stark girls and still they think me mad. Silver hair and lilac eyes make their heads fill with memories of a Mad King.
Burn them all! Her father had screamed.
But I am not my father.
I do not yell burn them all and I burn no innocents!
I command ‘Dracarys’ and my sons listen. Their flames protect the weak and downtrodden. And now two of those flames are extinguished. Lost for ungrateful people who sneer and shun me.
Only Drogon remains. Her eldest son flies around Dragonstone restlessly. He can feel his mother’s pain and worry, and he wishes to take her away.
Dany almost lets him.
Drogon could steal me away– We could find the house with the red door and the lemon tree outside my bedroom window.
But then the sickness comes, and her womb begins to quicken with the promise of life.
Dany had not been worried when her blood moon did not appear after she and Jon had lain together when they first reached Winterfell.
After the blood mage had cursed her, Dany’s monthly bleeding was irregular at best.
So, when there was no blood on her sheets during her time north, Daenerys had paid it no mind. Missandei had asked and insinuated.
“Do you not feel any different?”
“No,” the silver Queen had answered. And it had been the truth.
She did not feel the morning sickness that plagues her now or the ache in her swelling breasts.
One morning, after she’s finished spewing into a porcelain bowl, her head snaps up with realization and fear fills her cracked heart.
No–
Danys dresses quickly, ignoring Tyrion’s frightened eyes and Jon’s wide ones. She runs from the grey castle and to the hills where her last son sleeps. Someone calls her name, and she does not look back.
If I look back, I am lost.
Her feet are bare, and the sand is coarse beneath her.
Take one step. Take the next. Another step. Another, she tells herself.
Find your sweet son.
Drogon grumbles when he senses her distress, puffing balmy air in her direction.
Only death can pay for life.
She wonders which of the many lives lost had paid for the babe's life. There was a lengthy list of the dead that could have stirred her womb and sparked the fire of life inside her belly.
Dany hugs Drogon and weeps.
Ghosts visit her on the cliff. Dany wonders if it is from the lack of food. But what else was she to do? Little birds brought her plates that smelled grossly sweet.
Poison.
Varys,
Her old bear is the first. “Will you not fight Khaleesi?”
Jorah looks how he did on the battlefield. Full of holes made by dead men and corpses. Dany blinks and still he remains–
Her words are whispers, lost to the crashing waves below, “I am tired of war, my sweet bear.”
Drogon groans and she wonders if he thinks her mad too.
Jorah smiles at her sadly, “What of the babe?”
Dany whips her head to him, and her old bear is gone.
Missandei is smiling where her Jorah had been. Her neck is intact and there is no blood spewing from it. Daenerys takes a shuddering breath, “Missandei...”
Her golden-eyes scribe smiles and her full lips part, “I told you so, Your Grace.”
Tears drip from her lilac eyes, I have gone to madness.
Missandei shakes her head. “Gone to grief, not madness.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, my Queen. You will find your way back. You will make a home.” Missandei stares at her belly.
Daenerys stares at it too. How blind could she have been?
Her pale skin stretches with life, and she can feel the babe stir within her.
When she looks up her friend is gone and the Quaithe stands before her. “Remember my words Daenerys Stormborn.”
To go north, you must journey south. To reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back. To touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow.
The light is near Mother of Dragons.
Her mask is made of starlight. “Remember who you are, Daenerys,” the stars whispered in a woman’s voice. “Your son knows. Do you?”
“I am not my father,” she cries.
Drogon roars.
Ser Barristan smiles at her, “No you’re not, Your Grace.”
Daenerys stands. Her feet sway and she cradles her stomach.
“You are dead. You are all dead and I am mad!”
The old knight smiles again, “Not mad, My Queen. You are fire made flesh and magic runs inside you. Do not forget us Daenerys. Do not forget yourself.”
Missandei is back and her hands reach for her own.
“Valar morghulis.”
Dany’s brows furrow and her face twists with grief, “All men must die.”
Missandei smiles bright and wide. Words said thousands of years ago are repeated.
“But we are not men.”
Valar dohaeris, she says without saying. Her friend nods. Yes. All men must serve.
“And you will serve the kingdoms and be Queen. Your blood and tears and sweat will not be for naught, and this babe will be your legacy.”
Her sweet friend turns into her old bear and Daenerys weeps.
I am the blood of the dragon, she scolds herself.
And dragons do not weep!
“ You are a queen,” Jorah whispers.
“No,” her head hangs and tears threaten to come. “I am Queen of nothing,”
“You are Queen of Westeros.” Our corpses have paved the way,
“Not yet,” she reminds.
“I am tired, Jorah. I am weary of war.”
Her voice is thick with grief and pain and sorrow. “I want to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I was only a young girl.” Now I am nothing , she despairs. She wants the house in Braavos with a red door. She wants the lemon tree beneath her window–
The childhood she had never known.
No. Her old bear argues.
You are the blood of the dragon. His voice is fading, and she cannot see him anymore.
“Do not go,” she whispers. Do not leave me alone .
Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words
Fire and Blood.
Her ghosts leave her, and Dany turns.
Valar dohaeris, the wind whispers. Remember what you are Dragon Queen.
Her stomach turns and life persists.
I will serve.
Varys burns quickly.
He does not scream and his skin and bones crackle in the night air. She watches with blank eyes as another traitor turns to ash.
Poison had been found in another plate of food meant for her. Vary’s little bird had been caught. A young girl.
Truth slips from the little bird's lips and Dany has her thrown into a cell.
The babe growing inside her could have died, and no mercy will be felt by her enemies. Fire and Blood will come to those who seek to tear her asunder.
This babe will be your legacy , Missandei whispers. Her ghosts linger in the dark halls and her lilac eyes dare not look.
She tells no one of the baby. Only Greyworm.
Her loyal captain stations his best guards at her door and some semblance of safety is regained.
They plan her siege. Cersei had exhausted all her options and Daenerys would tear her down.
She will not fail. The babe growing inside of her will not die and she will be Queen.
She turns to pride.
What else is left but her pride? Two of her sons were gone. Her dearest advisor had lost her head and Jorah had been killed by dead men.
How could she not be proud when all that was left of her joys were the ghosts that trailed behind her.
Jon is the only one who tries. He brings her food and offers comfort.
She spits at his food and winces at his gentle hands.
Please Dany.
His brown eyes are so beautiful, and they fill her with sorrow. She had loved him once; she thinks she loves him still.
She wants to run into his arms and tell him of the life they created. But it was his fault.
He had stood in front of her and demanded her help. His plush lips had shouted about dead men in the north and called her arrogant for not believing him. She had let her heart lead, and it had cost her Viserion.
Love had made her follow him foolishly. And she had lost more than he had given. Her Dothraki and Unsullied had been cut in half. Her armies were now a husk of what they once were. Jorah had died fighting for the north and Rhaegal had been cast from the sky.
And it was all because she had loved Jon enough to fight a war that could have waited.
Then his true parentage had been revealed. And Jon, honorable and truthful Jon, had gone to his sisters.
Beautiful Sansa had gone to Tyrion, who had gone to Varys, and now here she was.
With more losses than she wanted to recall and a burning pile of ash at her feet.
She locks away her heart and turns her head away from the full lips who had demanded so much of her.
Tyrion pleads with her the night before the attack.
“When you hear the bells, call off the attack!”
His voice is desperate, and Dany almost laughs.
He thinks her mad. Her Hand thinks the same woman who had suffered under the wheels of oppression and destitution would continue the cycle.
Let him believe it, she seethes.
I will prove him wrong.
Greyworm looks at her for direction and she nods her head.
The bells will ring, and a new age of dragons will begin.
The bells are like a death sentence in her ears.
Smoke and ash cling to her.
Boats burn in the harbor and the stone walls melt.
Her soldiers flood into the capitol and the city surrenders.
Each bell makes her think of her ghosts.
Ring!
Viserion.
Ring!
Rhaegal.
Ring!
Jorah.
Ring!
Missandei.
Drogon shifts beneath her. Sensing her pain.
Something stirs in her womb, and she tenses.
Life persists,
She turns her eyes to the Red Keep.
There is a chair to be burned and a false Queen to be cast down.
Drogon lifts into the air. Innocents run beneath her and her son, and she ignores them all. They are not her enemies.
Fire will not touch them.
She looks at the castle beneath her. At the legacy of her forebearers.
Aegon the Conqueror with teats they call her.
No, she thinks. I am Daenerys Stormborn. Mother of Dragons.
Aegon had his chair.
And I will have mine.
Drogon burns his way to the throne room. Stone melts and walls fall.
The throne gleams against the raging fires. Atop the iron seat is a golden-haired Queen.
A lion.
If she were a sheep Daenerys might cower before her.
But she was a dragon, and dragons bowed to neither man or their gods, and especially not to lions.
Dracarys.
The word is sweet on her tongue and the false Queen burns with her chair.
When Drogon’s fire dies, the once looming throne is nothing but a melted mass of swords, and the Lion Queen is no more.
The Dragons have come again.
Respite from killing finally arrives and the war plaguing Westeros ends.
It is time to build and heal. To break the wheel and root out injustices.
The city is unscathed. No innocent bodies litter the streets, and the people shout her name.
Mother of dragons! The smallfolk cry.
Mother, Mother, Mother.
Mother of dragons.
Mother of monsters.
Daughter of death and bride of fire.
She wants to cry out that she is only a woman. And that she has lost more than they know.
But you are more than just a woman her ghosts sing. They are sweet in her ear and distant in her peripheral.
You are fire made flesh, the same as your beastly sons. You are no ordinary woman Daenerys. Your dreams come true.
Tyrion mourns his sister and admonishes her for killing the Lion Queen.
“She would have surrendered! You could have spared her!”
Daenerys bristles and rages at the little man, “Would she have shown me such mercy? Would Cersei have allowed me to still draw breath if she had won instead?”
Tyrion does not answer, and his hypocrisy stands taller than he ever would. Dany dismisses him.
She takes the back the pin she had once so happily granted to him.
“You have failed me Tyrion. Go home and mourn your family.”
As I will grieve mine.
Jon stays.
Her Northman does not leave. He is a quiet shadow behind her.
He wishes to atone, she thinks.
When he finds her hunched over the ground spitting up the dinner they had shared the night before, his mouth parts and his eyes leak tears.
Dany curses and she sighs.
“How many moons?”
He helps her stand, and she feels her legs aching.
“Three or four, I am not sure.”
His mind searches his memories of their time spent together, “So the waterfall then?”
The last time they had lain together–
Danys winces at the memory, “Yes.”
She can't bear to look at him. He was disgusted to be sure. He had been repulsed by their family connection; the babe would only serve to make it worse.
“You are under no obligation to do anything. The babe will not be born a bastard. They will be my heir and carry the Targaryen name.”
Tears drip from her lilac eyes, “You do not have to see them. I know-”
“Marry me,”
Her head snaps toward him and a ragged noise tears through her throat.
He kneels before her, “I have wronged you Dany. Let me be at your side and be a father our babe.”
HIs brown eyes are filled with tears, “I love you.”
Dany thought the pain would leave once he uttered those words to her. That everything would melt away like dew and happiness would return.
But it doesn’t. And her heart still aches.
She marries him anyway.
Dany would not deny Jon his child, or her child its father.
They marry under the Weirwood tree planted in the gardens of the Red Keep. The old gods watch them through the bleeding face carved into the white bark, and Daenerys allows herself some joy.
The red keep is restored quickly and Dany commissions a new chair.
Her new throne is made of dragonglass. Dark and glimmering.
She sits it on the melted ruins of the Iron Throne.
Lords and Ladies come to pledge their obeisance to her. Great and small houses come from all over Westeros to bend the knee to their new Queen.
“This is a new age,” she says once they have all gathered in her new throne room. “Not one of conquest but of life.”
Jon stands on the dais, guarding her from anyone who might seek to harm her.
“Spring is here, and winter has ended, let me lead you into a dream of spring my Lords and Ladies. I know war has ravaged your towns and stripped you of husbands and sons. I know of your losses; I grieve them with you. Let us build anew, with stronger and kinder hearts. Will you break the wheel with me? ”
Doubts drift from her people’s eyes and shouts ring into the hall.
All hail the Dragon Queen, they shout.
The ache in her chest lessens just slightly.
Daenerys declares herself the second Targaryen Queen to rule in her own right. She proclaims Rhaenyra Targaryen the first.
Dany tells the Maesters at the citadel to change the histories. To declare Aegon the second a usurper and Rhaenyra Targaryen, first of her name, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
The Maester’s grumble, “That will be a lengthy task, My Queen. Perhaps it would-”
“Do it. I do not care how long it takes,”
When Jon asks about it later, she explains, “Men are no more fit to rule than a woman just because of the worm between their legs. Our first babe will rule after us, regardless of what lies between their legs.”
Her northern husband smiles, “Alright.”
Their babe is born six months after she takes the throne.
She’d spent her entire pregnancy anxious and doubtful. She cried to Jon.
“What if this babe bleeds from me before they can be born?”
Her husband is gentle, “They will not.”
“What if they are still when they leave my womb?”
Jon hugs her tight, “They will be boundless and born screaming,”
Dany steels herself.
I am the blood of the dragon. I will be brave.
Dany wakes in the middle of a spring rain, shouting with pain.
Jon calls for the midwives and Grand Maester.
Dany holds his hand, trembling with fear.
Her mother, Queen Rhaella, had died bringing her into the world. Her first child, Rhaego, had been born with scales and a dragon tale. Her son was still and silent when he tore through her.
“I will die,”
She is certain.
Drogon screams into the rain, shaking the castle.
Jon grips her hand tighter, “You are Daenerys Targaryen. A babe will not take you.”
Dany does not believe him.
“Do not let them cut me. Please Jon!”
She is at another’s mercy, and it fills her with icy dread.
Jon is crying with her, “No one will cut into you Dany.”
Their daughter comes quickly, and without fuss.
She does not enter the world screaming as Jon had said, and the midwives must shake her until she voices her disapproval.
Daenerys is besotted.
She marvels at the little girl born from her.
The first Targaryen to be born in over two decades.
They call her Rhaella. After her mother.
She is the picture of House Targaryen; with her silver hair and purple eyes.
The Seven Kingdoms toast to a new princess.
The city bells ring and this time, they ring with life.
Rhaella is a gentle girl, with her father's doe eyes and pouty lips.
Jon adores their girl, and though the love she carries for him is not the same one that had burned so brightly, Dany is grateful for him.
They call the young princess The Realm’s Delight.
The smallfolk toast to their princess and cheer when Drogon flies by.
Dany appoints Arianne Martell her Lady Hand. The Dornish woman is cleverer than Tyrion and much more charming.
Together they make the realm better. The smallfolk are heard, and Daenerys breaks the wheel. The children of her Kingdom are happy ones, and Westeros feels peace after years of war.
When she looks to Rhaella, she sees the legacy of those who came before her and those who will come after her.
A dynasty come again–
Drogon hatches a clutch of eggs during a brief visit to Dragonstone. Her son had been snappier than usual, ignoring his food and flying off for days.
When Dany searches the lair he had made in the cliffs of Dragonstone, she gasps with joy at the eggs that lay beneath Drogon.
Dany bites back tears when she sees two of the eggs are green and white.
When the hatchlings break their scaley shells, Rhaella watches in awe with her mother as the sky comes alive with the song of dragons.
Red comets burn in the blue sky and the might of their house has come again.
Her Daughter claims a cream and gold colored dragon.
“His name will be Viserion mother. For the son you lost.”
Dany weeps and the new Viserion shrieks.
The Queen makes her Kingdom beautiful. Dany fills it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. When she rides past, her people smile and call her mother.
Mother of Dragons!
Uniter of the realm!
She is mother to more than dragons now. Dany had wanted more babes and Jon had given her two more.
Her last children are twins. Two silver boys with their mothers' lilac eyes.
She names the eldest Rhaegar and the youngest Daeron. Rhaella dotes on them, and Dany thinks this is what happiness is.
To see her babes happy and safe.
They will have the childhood I never knew.
Her reign is a long one. Full of peace and springtime.
When she passes from this veil of tears, it is with her daughter's hand in her own.
Dany closes her eyes and when they open again, golden eyes smile back at her.
Missandei...
“You served well, my Queen.”
Her loyal friend clasps her hand and leads her to a house with a red door and a lemon tree beneath the window.