Chapter Text
She’d been here before.
Sat within the flickering flames with soot collecting on her pale skin. Underneath the heat of the flames licking at her skin, she could still feel the cold metal of the blade that had plunged into her breast. It was like ice compared to the flames that surrounded her. Bright and flickering as they licked at her pale skin.
He had killed her. She had loved him, promised him the world, and he had killed her. Stabbed a dagger into her chest in front of the very throne she had been fighting to claim for her whole life. She had only ever loved him. Loved him and cherished him and basked in his presence.
Her head was spinning, her vision blotted out by the smoke that was choking her every breath. She was dead, stabbed in the chest by a man she had thought loved her. Yet, she was here; feeling the heat of the flames against skin and listening to the cracking of pure wood as it burned.
There was a voice crackling within the flames. The words indecipherable from the popping of burning wood.
Daenerys Stormborn, Daenerys Fireborn, Daenerys Twiceborn. It was wrong. The Gods decreed.
She must’ve been dreaming. Maybe this was what the Dothraki meant when they talked about the great grass sea in the sky. She had dreamed of the endless fields on occasion, when she had still rode behind Khal Drogo as his wife at the head of his Khalasar. It had been so easy to think of them night after night, after her time with her husband. Before she had been hardened by loss and death and betrayal. Maybe this was her afterlife, the afterlife the gods had seen fit to gift her. She wouldn’t mind if it was, she wouldn’t mind if this was it.
This had been the moment where she had been reborn, where her children had been born. It had been here that she had finally begun living. It was bittersweet, to be stuck here for all of eternity when it had been here that she had begun living for the first time. Out of her brother's sight and free of a husband who enjoyed her only when he could mount her.
It was bittersweet to be stuck without the ability to move forwards. If this was to be her eternity, then it was probably more than she deserved.
She hoped her children would receive more kindness than her. She prayed that Viserion and Rhaegal were together, flying over the many oceans and gliding amongst the clouds. When Drogon joined them in death, Daenerys expected that his brother and sister would be waiting for him in the afterlife. That they would tussle over dead sheep and snap at each other in play like they had been doing all of their life.
What she wouldn’t give to have them with her. She could still feel the phantom sensation of warm scales against her palms, the echo of Viserion’s singing as she drifted through the skies after her brothers. She hadn’t deserved to be taken from the world so soon, so young. She had still been a child.
Oh, Viserion, her poor sweet Viserion. She had been killed and turned into a mindless beast, her intelligent mind snuffed out like a candle.
And Rhaegal, her beautiful son. She could still see the moment he had been taken from her. How blood had sprayed when the scorpion bolt had torn through his chest before another had pierced through jaw and taken him to a watery grave. No dragon deserved to rest under the water. They were beings of fire, fire made flesh, and too the fire they should have returned.
Yet, two of her children had been laid to rest beneath the water. She could still remember watching Viserion slide from the ice into the freezing water below. Her daughter, only seven, still just a babe, the youngest of her three children. Even if only by a few moments.
And Drogon, her poor, sweet, stubborn son. He was alone now, with none in the world who wouldn’t kill him the moment that they set eyes upon him.. She could only hope that he had left, that he had spread those massive black wings of his and took to the skies. That he flew far away and never turned back.
Twice born, you must change your fate. Live, and be born again.
Daenerys barely noticed when the fire began to die down and the ashes settled into a thick blanket on her shoulders. The surrounding ground collecting its own blanket of powder over the chunks of still smouldering charcoal that littered the dirt. But when an insistent little snout pressed firmly into the meat of her bare thigh, her attention was caught. Her face was covered in ash and the smoke was making her vision hazy, but she would be able to recognize her son even if someone had carved out her eyes.
It was Drogon, smaller than she could ever remember him being. With his soft scales the size of finger nails and the spines on his head barely taller than her thumb. Everything about him was smaller than she remembered. From his translucent wings to the tip of his barbed tail. She could only blink down at him with pale eyes, her mind blank.
And like always, where Drogon went, his brother and sister followed. Viserion and Rhaegal, with soot-covered scales, crawled towards her, hauling their tiny fragile bodies towards her on leg and wing. She could only watch as her children climbed up her body, their tiny claws leaving pinpricks of pain on her pale skin. Drogon, in the way he had always been, claimed his favorite place on her shoulders, wrapping his tail around her neck like he had done it a thousand times before.
Viserion and Rhaegal latched onto her bare breasts, suckling for the milk that would have been for her baby. Rhaego hadn’t ever been able to nurse from her chest, but it felt right for her other children to take his place. The babe had been born with scales and horns, the blood of dragons running throughout his veins, so it was only right for dragons to take his place.
Their claws bit into the tender flesh of her chest, but the pain was insignificant in the face of her children’s hunger. It was only instinct really, how her arms moved to cradle her children against her chest, ignoring the little squeals they last out as she moved them. She felt complete with her children there. She gazed down at them, gaze soft. She moved a hand upwards to cup Drogon’s head against her cheek before she moved to stroke his scales.
If this was to be her eternity, then it was more than she deserved.
She sat there, blanketed in ash and a dying warmth, with her children cradled in her lap as Drogon nuzzled against her jaw. She was content to sit there forever. Naked and dirty, but content.
But as the fire died, movement caught her eye. From between coal laden branches, her own pale violet eyes locked gazes with Ser Jorah Mormont.
He looked exactly like he had that day so many years ago. Only seven years, but Jorah had looked so much older by the end of them, had looked so much older when he had died. His hair was darker than it had been, and the wrinkles on his brow were far less prominent than they had been before. There were still wrinkles marring his skin, but he looked much less worn than he had. Even while tracking through the desert, age had not yet become his enemy, nor the sickness that had scarred his skin.
When Daenerys had last seen him, he had had blood leaking out of a hundred cuts and the light had been fading from his blue, blue eyes. She had held him and wept over his still chest as snow and ash had rained down around her and the smell of death had sunk into her pores. He had loved her, even in the end, especially in the end. Even when she had never loved him back in the way he had wanted her too. The way he so desperately wanted.
He looked so young as he stood there in front of her with one of her bloodriders beside him, Aggo she thought. Dressed in ragged Dothraki leathers with dust and soot on his face, he stared down at her with awe written plainly on his weathered face.
This had happened before. She had been here before. She had sat there in the remains of her husband's funeral pyre, holding three newborn dragons to her breasts as the remains of Drogo’s Khalasar, her Khalasar, stared on at her with wide eyes, reverent eyes.
She wasn’t supposed to be here, not again, not after everything that had happened. Yet she sat, with needle sharp baby fangs biting into her tender nipples as her children suckled. Blood mixing into the milk from the puncture wounds, causing her babies to drink as much blood as they did their mothers milk. The pain was there, proving against all odds that she wasn’t dreaming.
She had witnessed many terrible things in her dreams before, but never pain. Not once.
She stood, ignoring Ser Jorah’s offered hand. Her clothes were gone, burnt away in the fire. She stood bare before her people, yet no eyes lingered upon her naked body. They were all trained upon the miracles that she had brought into the world. After hundreds of years without the sighting of a dragon, she was now blessing them with the sight of three of them.
Her other two Bloodrider’s were standing at the front of the crowd, the gifts she had made of her wedding presents in their hands. They hadn’t believed that she could be a Khal. Jhogo had said to her face that a female Khal would bring shame to him and to the Khalasar. That being a Bloodrider to a woman would be as good as castrating him and throwing him from his horse. Aggo had been less offensive in his words, but had shared the sentiment with Jhogo. A woman leading a Khalasar was not done.
Kovarro had been the kindest, offering to travel with her to Vaes Dothrak. Escorting her to the Dosh Khaleen to become one of them and serve as counsel to the great khals.
All three of them had denied her claim as Khal, but now, they stood before her, holding their gifted weapons and dropping to their knees. They were hers, now and always. Before and now.
“These are my children! Drogon after my husband, Viserion after my brother, as cowardly as he was, and Rhaegal after my oldest brother, the last dragon no more!” Daenerys called out, her voice strong as she held out her arms to show off her children, “Rhaego may have died in my belly before he could mount the world, but his brothers and sister, the Khalakka’s and the Khalakki, will ride on in his honor! The milk that was meant for him will fill their stomachs until they are full. They will grow and they will fly and they will give me the world!” These words rolled off of her tongue in the native Dothraki tongue, the harsh syllables rumbling in her chest and up her throat. “You are my Khalasar, you are my people and I promised that anything that hurt you would die screaming. In return, would you help my children give me the world? Would you ride into the battle with my children flying above you?”
They were screaming now, men, women and children. Hollering in the way that only the Dothraki could. Perched on her shoulder, Drogon screamed with them, his high pitched wail only riling her Khalasar up further. Viserion and Rhaegal detached their mouths from her breast to join in on the cacophony. Their thin calls rising up above the harsh desert.
Tears prickled at her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. If this was real, if this was not the afterlife she was promised or some convoluted dream that her heartbroken, dying mind was dreaming up. Then she had been given another chance. Something that many had prayed for yet had never received.
Jorah was looking at her as if he had never seen her before, as if she was something ethereal and unreal that had appeared before him out of a fog.
“Khaleesi…” the man breathed, his voice filled with awe. The adoration on his face was palpable in a way that was so known yet so foreign to her. He had never been able to stop loving her, even when he knew that she could never love him in the way that he wanted her too.
But that was irrelevant now. She could figure out the intricacies of her personal relationships later. Right now, she had to get her people out of the desert.
~oOo~
She could feel her children’s minds pressing up against her consciousness. That was something she hadn’t been able to feel until she had ridden Drogon for the first time in her last life. Her children’s thoughts were simple now that they were babies again. Vague impressions and images that she couldn’t quite catch.
But they were alive, all three of them. Sweet Rhaegal, stubborn Drogon, and light hearted Viserion. They were all here, healthy and alive.
The trek through the red waste was not doing them any favors though. They needed more to eat than the little chunks of roasted horse she was able to provide them with. It was not doing her any favors either. Her body was still weak from her labor and without rest, she was only going to get weaker.
“Khaleesi, you must rest!” Irri was persistent in her worry, bold enough to ignore Daenerys' dismissal of her concern.
“I am alright Irri, I need to continue on, I need to get us out of this desert.”
Yet, even as she said that, she knew her handmaiden was right. She was sore from riding in a way she hadn’t been since her first weeks as a Khals’ wife. Her silver, usually such a comforting presence underneath her was causing her nothing but pain. Agony was shooting up her back and her head was dizzy from the little water she had managed to swallow.
“She is right Khaleesi, you need to rest.” Ser Jorah added from atop his horse on her other side. “You cannot get your Khalasar out of the red waste if you cannot think and you cannot think if you are weak.”
She wanted to scoff, “What am I supposed to do then do you suppose? Lay down on a nice feather bed? Ask for a servant to bring me grapes and wine?” She demanded, “No, my pain will not last forever and I can rest once we get to safety.”
She should rest, she knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to when she could see her people growing more haggard as the days passed by. What good would it do to rest? She knew where she needed to go, how to make sure that her horde would be fed as well as her dragons. So even with the sun beating down upon her and the red dust that was being kicked up into her eyes, Daenerys kept her Khalasar moving, stopping only at night to let her people sleep and eat. She sent out scouts like she had done before, but this time, it wasn’t Aggo, Kovarro, and Rakharo that she sent out. She needed all three of her bloodriders hale and healthy, not one dead and one injured.
It was three other men that she sent out. It felt selfish for her to do, sending these men out into the Red Waste when she knew what would happen to them. She felt cruel, but she couldn’t justify not sending out scouts. Ser Jorah wouldn’t take her at face value if he told him she knew where she needed to go. For all he knew, she was still the same little girl that he had been besides for the past months.
“I promised to protect them. Promised them that their enemies would die screaming. How do I make starvation scream?” She had asked so long ago, and she asked again now after the death of her silver. The horse having fallen as she talked to Doreah.
“What did your brother say about them, Khaleesi?” Her handmaiden had asked as Daenerys walked alongside the horses to give herself a break from the saddle. Drogon was perched atop her shoulder as she fed him bits of meat from her blood stained fingers.
“He said they ate meat, but I already knew that.” She replied, slipping another piece of burnt horse through the gaps in the basket that was hollering her other two dragons.
“Did he tell you what kind of meat?” Doreah continued, her eyes trained eagerly upon Drogon’s wings.
“My brother didn’t know anything about dragons Doreah. He didn’t know anything about anything. He was a cruel little boy who got upset whenever something didn’t go his way.” She bit out in reply.
Doreah was clearly taken aback by her harsh response. The handmaiden barely had time to look surprised before the commotion of her silver falling over caught her attention.
“Have her cut up for meat, blood of my blood.” She ordered taking only a moment to mourn the horse. She had been a steady stead, but her loss was nothing compared to the loss of her dear friends or the loss of her children. Compared to the loss of Missandei and Jorah, the death of a horse could not compare.
She couldn’t let her people starve because she was upset over the death of a horse. Her children ate their fill of roasted horse flesh, especially since Daenerys knew now that they required for the meat to be charred. She wouldn’t have to feed them like that for long. She would continue to pamper them, but within a few weeks they would be able to broil their own food without a second thought.
Drogon had always been the biggest of her dragons and his appetite reflected that. He was ravenous for his food, nipping at his brother and sister for the food in their mouths, before Daenerys put a stop to it with a sharp reprimand. It was easier now that she had experience, for her to control her children. Well, not control them, one could never control a dragon, nor attempt too. Dragons were free creatures. But it was easy to slip into the bond between the four of them and communicate what she needed from them or for them to tell her what they needed from their mother.
Unlike last time, where the bond between her and Drogon had been the most prominent, with his siblings slipping into the background of her mind, Daenerys could feel all three of her children much easier than she had been able to before. She could feel them all almost the same, though Drogon’s bond felt a bit bigger than his siblings. It made sense, she supposed. While all three of the dragons were her children, Drogon was hers in an entirely different way. She was his rider and he was her mount. It made sense.
She couldn’t do much as she waited for the three Dothraki she had sent out to return, so she kept herself idle by entertaining herself with her children. When one of her men returned injured, she had his wound dressed by one of the women in her Khalasar. The widow had a talent for sewing, which she made use of as she briskly stitched up the wound on the man’s side. He hadn’t found anything, just like Daenerys knew he would. But the information was new to Ser Jorah and her blood riders.
Like Ser Jorah had told her, the lamb men in the direction that the man had gone in did not take kindly to the Dothraki. Even if it was only a single scout. Another one of her men returned, his head in a bag. His wife, now a widow, came forward wailing.
“His soul, they killed his soul!” She cried, cradling her husband's severed head in her hands.
When the last man finally returned, with his neck intact and a grin on his dark face, Daenerys wished she could feel as relieved as the rest of her Khalasar did.
“Qarth, the city is called, they have said that they would welcome the Mother of Dragons with open arms!” The man, Zollo is name was, said, his face bright as he brandished the bags of food and skins of water that had been gifted to him. Along with that, a fresh horse had been gifted to him to allow his own steed a rest.
Zollo looked so proud of himself and Daenerys didn’t have the heart to tell him that the nobles of Qarth only extended an invitation to her with the intention of using her Royal blood and her dragons to gain power and reputation for themselves.
“What do you know about Qarth?” She asked Ser Jorah, for his benefit rather than hers. She knew more about the city in the desert than he did. It would allay the man’s worries to know that she was not intending to go in blind.
“I do not know much, Khaleesi. I know that it is a rich city, home to many noblemen,” he hesitated, “I also know that the desert around the city is called the Garden of Bones, and that with each traveler that is turned away from the gates, the garden grows.”
“Well, that’s just lovely isn’t it.” Daenerys replied, unable to keep the derision out of her voice. But, like last time, she had no other way to keep her Khalasar alive.
Her dragons still suckled at her breasts days later, even with the amount of meat they were eating. Daenerys was glad she could do something to keep them well fed. She knew what they needed this time, yet it was still a struggle to feel like she was doing the right thing for them. Her Khalasar as well, needed more food, more water. So she ignored everything telling her to run away and never return to Qarth, and herded her Khalasar towards the city.
~oOo~
The Thirteen of Qarth managed to be even more arrogant and self assured then they had been last time. Or maybe Daenerys was just better at reading people than she had been before. She wasn’t yet what she would come to be. She wasn’t the Breaker of Chains or the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she was just a little girl that they thought was beneath them. A little girl who just happened to have dragons.
When Xaro Xhoan Doxos volunteered to speak for her and foster her presence in his city, Daenerys could feel nothing but dislike for the man. As he cut his palm and swore on his blood to keep her safe within the city, Daenerys tuned him out. She plastered a placid smile on her face, the one that always made men assume that she knew nothing, and held her tongue. Her Khalasar needed supplies and she needed a bath, so she could play along.
She had been so taken with the dark skinned man in her last life. He had shown her kindness and offered her riches beyond her imagination. If she hadn’t still been fragile and reeling from the death of her husband, she probably would have taken him up on his marriage proposal. This time around, Daenerys knew that the man had none such riches to speak of. She could see the power hungry desperation in his eyes. Like all men, he craved power and influence, which he was sure that Daenerys could give him. She would do no such thing.
The Spice King was also just as smarmy than he had been before. He had been so quick to jump to propositioning her. He wanted a night to lay with her in exchange for a single ship. He was blatant when he leered hungrily at her. He made her skin crawl.
Somehow, the man managed to be even more persistent in his attention, even going so far as to invite her to his abode to speak. Daenerys knew this was another attempt to try and sway her attention towards him. She agreed only to keep him from trying even harder.
She made her way to the grand manse of the Spice King, dressed in a sturdy dress woven from fine gold and tan threads. It had been a gift from Xaro Xhoan Daxos, and while she did not like the man, she knew better than to deny a gift while he acted as her benefactor and was the only thing keeping her in the city.
She kept her Kovarro with her as she went, not stupid enough to go into the Spice Kings abode without someone to defend her. Her bloodrider walked a few steps behind her, his arakh in hand. The curved weapon was part scythe and part sword. Made for easy use from the saddle of a horse, the weapon was imposing when wielded by a man like Kovarro. The man was tall, stern looking and his braid was long. The bells braided into his hair jingled as he stalked behind her. The man walked more like a great cat than a stallion. Sure in his steps and his clear eyes sweeping over anything that might be considered a threat.
The manse had clearly been designed with grandeur in mind. With marble walls and pedestals carved to look like the roaring faces of animals or the bodies of women laid bare. Every surface in the main chamber was decorated in finery. Pelts draped over tables and hung on walls, golden dishes placed strategically over every surface.
Daenerys curled her lip at the display as she moved to take a seat on one of the provided finely woven chairs. Kovarro took a position behind her shoulder, his arms crossed against his thinly clad chest. While she had taken to wearing the gifts of clothing that had been given to her, her khalasar preferred to remain in the leathers that they had. The Dothraki leathers and woven skirts made them stand out starkly against the dyed fabrics and gold jewelry that the Qartheen wore.
It was almost ten minutes later that the Spice King deigned to make an appearance.
“I am terribly sorry for my lateness, Mother of Dragons!” The man proclaimed as he swept into the room, “I found myself unable to sleep! Nightmares plagued my mind until the birds began to sing in the sky, and by the time I had put myself together the time had flown by!”
The falsely apologetic tone in his cheery voice was obvious. This was a move she was familiar with. Leave your guests waiting so that, by the time you had graced them with your presence, they had worked themselves up into a panic.
“Not at all, my lord, I enjoyed the moment of quiet that the time afforded me.” Daenerys replied, smiling back at the fat man placidly. At her back, Kovarro shifted as he detected the hidden disdain in her voice. Good.
The man went one, ignoring the Dothraki that was guarding her. It was hard not to ignore the Spice King out. The man was clearly trying to show off his wealth, waxing poetic about the city and the part he had in maintaining it. He clearly believed that he had been the sole man to raise the city to its supposed greatness. The Thirteen put forward an illusion of wealth, the fronts of their clothes draped in finery and embroidered with golden thread, while the back of the outfit remained blank. It told her much about the front that the noble lords put up.
The Spice King moved on to talking about all the exotic items that he had in his possession. He blabbered on about the jewels he had bought, about the rare, wild animals that he had had hunted down for their pelts, and about all the rare trinkets that he had gained over the years. Daggers of glass, marbles that were said to contain their own worlds within, gold gilded chests and so much more. He wanted her to know what he had, what he could offer her in return for a few nights with her.
“-and of course, the crown jewel in my collection, the dragon egg!” His voice was giddy, likely knowing that this would catch her attention. And it did.
“Dragon egg?” She asked, shocked.
The Spice King looked smug. It made his already fat, perspiring face look even worse than before. Clearly, he had been counting on her interest in the dragon egg.
“Why yes! Years ago, a dragon egg happened to come into my possession! I had considered selling, you understand, they are worth so much! But now that you are here, I will celebrate the fact that I never got the chance!” The rotund man explained jovially, “would you like to see it?”
Daenerys wouldn’t have been able to decline the offer even if she had wanted to. She kept her features schooled into expression of expectant excitement, her eyes showing none of what she was truly feeling.
Why would this man offer her a dragon egg? Didn’t he know that giving her another dangerous creature wasn’t something he should do, didn’t he know the damage that dragons could do? But then she remembered, this man hadn’t seen the destruction that her children could bring. No one had. Right now, Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal were the size of small dogs, not the massive hulking beasts that they had come to be.
The Spice King thought her harmless, and was naively dangling something extremely dangerous in front of her without knowing the consequences for his actions.
She stood, taking the man’s elbow when he offered it, ignoring the way the man lay his opposite hand on her arm. The hand was sweaty and the metal of his rings was warm against her pale skin. He led here through his quarters, purposely, she suspected, moving through lavishly decorated rooms to impress her.
Eventually, he led her to a smaller, more secluded room in the back of his manse and hidden at the top of a staircase. The room was equally as decorated as the rest of the rooms. There were furs and feathers decorating the wall, right alongside beautiful fabrics trimmed in gold. This room seemed to be where he kept the most precious of his possessions, given the elaborate lock on the door. Nothing that a little dragon fire couldn’t melt through though.
Standing in the middle of the room was a carved marble pedestal. It was clearly the center piece of the room, with a pretty purple velvet pillow, made of a no doubt expensive fabric, resting on top with the golden tassels at its corners trailing down over the edges of the stone. And on the center of the pillow, sitting in a divot created by its own weight, was a beautiful scaled egg.
It was just as beautiful as her own eggs had been. The colors were a lovely mix of sea foam green and a delicate silver that glistened in the light streaming in through the windows.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” The Spice King declared, patting her hand with his own damp one as he led her closer, “One of the wonders of the world, one that grows rarer and rarer with every passing year!”
Daenerys couldn’t bring herself to look away from the egg in front of her. She was close enough to touch it, to run delicate fingers over the raised ridges of the eggs scales. She could feel the warmth emanating from within it, even if nobody else would have.
“It could be yours!” The man prattled on, clearly taking her interest as an invitation, “I would only ask for one thing from you Daenerys Stormborn.”
“And what would that be?” Daenerys asked, never taking her eyes off of the egg.
She knew what he wanted, he couldn’t have been more obvious in his intentions if he tried. He thought her a little girl who would naively accept any conditions if it meant that she could have the pretty, shiny thing that had been dangled in front of her.
“I would only ask for the glorious honor of becoming your husband! To be wed to the wonderful dragon queen would make me the happiest man in Qarth!”
It was as much as she had expected.
“Such an offer does me great honor, Spice King. Would you allow me the courtesy of a few days to consider your offer?” Daenerys replied, playing into the fake courtesies that would placate the man. She knew she would never have to accept the offer. Xaro Xhoan Daxos would make a move to steal her dragons within the next day or two. As much as she hated the idea of putting her children into the hands of the likes of Pyat Pree, she knew the warlock would not harm them. She needed the warlock to kill the other members of the Thirteen for her, and afterwards, it would be child’s play to kill Pyat Pree and detain Xaro Xhoan Daxos.
“Of course, of course! Take your time my lady! Walk the streets and enjoy the sights of the greatest city that ever was and will ever be!”
The man led her outside, kissing her hand in farewell with his wormy lips. And she left, Vakarro following behind her.
“Khaleesi, was that egg like the ones that the Khalakka’s and the Khalakki hatched from?” The Bloodrider asked lowly in the guttural dothraki tongue. He did not speak the common tongue that was used by the Qartheen. So he could not know what she and the Spice King had talked about, but he had seen the eggs that her children had hatched from.
“Yes,” she replied, “It will be mine.”
Vakarro nodded. The Dothraki understood what it meant to take something. They took what they wanted. “The Khalasar will have a new Khalakka.” He agreed
“Or a Khalakki.”
How had she missed this the first time she had been in Qarth? The Dothraki had pillaged the city after the death of the Thirteen, Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos. But somehow they had missed the dragon egg that the Spice King had in his possession. She knew that if they had found it, the man or woman who had found it would have brought it to her.
What had changed to inspire the Spice King to personally invite her to view the egg and propose marriage to her? She didn’t know.
~oOo~
Like she knew would happen, she returned from a conversation with Xaro Xhoan Daxos to find Irri dead and her dragons taken.
The meeting held between the Thirteen went much the same as before. She demanded that her dragons be returned to her and Pyat Pree revealed that he had been the one to take them, with Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ help. The warlock killed the other eleven members of the Thirteen, slitting their throats and leaving them to choke to death on their own blood.
Ser Jorah was against her going to the Tower of the Undying, he urged her to load a ship and sail for Astopor, but there was no world or time that Daenerys would leave her children in the hands of warlocks.
She climbed to the tower, and was unsurprised when she appeared somewhere else after circling the base of it.
There was the Iron Throne, the throne that she had died in front of. The snow that was raining down around her reminded her far too much of the ash that had been drifting through the air as she had stood in front of it. As she had been killed. As she had been stabbed by a man she thought she would spend the rest of her days with. She had loved him with every fiber of her being, yet he had been so quick to turn on her and stab his dagger into her heart.
She turned away.
She fought her way through the icy storm that was howling outside. The freezing winds whipping her hair into her face and biting at her skin. She kept moving forwards, fighting against the winds that tried to push her back. When the tent came into view, Daenerys entered it without hesitation, even when she knew what temptations awaited her within.
It was warm in the tent, the air moist with sweat and condensation. The desert bred a certain air that was either hated or loved.
And Drogo was there, sitting crossed legged on the dusty ground. His braid was as long as she remembered, oiled heavily to make it shine and the strands braided together by deft hands. His eyes were clear and bright with life. Rhaego sat upon the dusty ground in front of his father, his pudgy hands grappling clumsily with a toy made of horse-leather. His hair was dark where it curled against his ears. His eyes shined as he looked up at his mother with a gum filled smile.
Her heart hurt. This could have been her future, her life. It had been taken away in the blink of an eye because of her own stupid decisions. She had killed her husband and the unborn babe within her belly. This was only a sick mimicry that was trying to lure her into staying.
She was tempted. But she could hear her children crying out for her. Their shrill cries echoing against stone walls that Daenerys couldn’t see.
She turned away.
She exited the tent, the wailing cry of an infant rising in her wake.
She didn’t find herself back in the snow, instead, she was sitting on a terrace made of a sandy colored stone, a dress of fine blue cloth flowing softly around her legs. There were hands on her hair, softly brushing though the fine white strands to untangle any knots that they found.
Missandei’s soft melodic voice was humming absentmindedly from behind her. Daenerys caught a glimpse of a delicate dark-bronzed hand from the corner of her eye. A tear slipped down her cheek unbidden.
She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected that the Maegi would be able to use events that hadn’t yet happened to try and keep her there. She hadn’t known. If she had known, she wasn’t sure she would have let her dragons be taken at all.
She could live with the deaths of Drogo and Rhaego, it had been a lifetime since she had first mourned them and she had been strong enough to shoulder it then. But Missandei, Missandei had died so recently. She had died so terribly and so alone. Her head taken from her and her body tossed aside like it was a scrap of meat to the dogs.
Missandei had asked her to burn a city, and Daenerys had.
“Are you well, your Grace?” Missandei asked from behind her, likely noticing how Daenerys had tensed. Her voice was just as soothing as it had ever been, the woman’s accent pulling at her heartstrings.
This wasn’t Missandei, she knew. It was just a cruel illusion of her dearest friend. But unlike Drogo and Rhaego, Missandei wasn’t dead. She was alive in the hands of Kraznys mo Nakloz, being used as a scribe and dressed in the ways of a pleasure slave.
“No, but I will be.” Daenerys replied, standing abruptly and walking towards the door leading inside, “We will be.”
She was standing in the snow, Drogon and Rhaegal standing behind her. She was dressed in the white furred dress that she had preferred during her stay in the north, her cheeks pink from the cold and her breath misting in front of her face. Jon Snow was there, a smile on his face and a healthy pink tint to his cheeks, his eyes shining as he looked at her.
Daenerys turned around and walked away.
She was in the tower again. The screams of her children bouncing against the stone and burying themselves in her skull. Her dragons sat on top of a stone table in the middle of the circular room with chains around their thin necks.
“They miss their mother. They want to be with you.”
Daenerys jumped at the voice of Pyat Pree. The man’s voice caused her hair to stand on end. Her children were distressed at the appearance of the man, their wails picking up in volume.
“Do you want to be with them? You will-“
“I know,” Daenerys stated as she interrupted the man. “They are my children, they will be with me, but we won’t be with you.”
The man stopped, his bug-like eyes trained on her and his blue lips dipping into a frown.
“Your magic may be stronger in their presence, but they are stronger in mine. They are stronger than you and they are only babes. Qarth will burn when the time comes, but for now, you will burn in its place.”
The man stared at her, his eyes intent, and even in the face of her words he stood unshaken. That was alright, Let them believe her incapable.
“Dracarys.”
Her children went silent behind her, and then fire was streaming past her body. The flames were too fast for the man to dodge, even with his strange habit of changing places in the blink of an eye. The fire caught him in the face, burning away pale skin and leaving roasted flesh in its place.
The man was screaming, screaming as his skin and clothes burnt away. He fell to the floor, his shouts failing in his throat before he went silent. The Maegi was just an empty shell made of meat now. No soul, no life, just meat.
The chains around her children’s necks crumbled into nothing and then they were on her. Drogon jumped upwards to perch on her shoulder, nuzzling against her face, before Viserion jumped to the same shoulder and shoved her brother off of their mothers shoulder. Drogon screeched as he tumbled downwards, more angry than scared, before Daenerys caught him. Viserion chittered in laughter and Drogon screeched and screamed from his place in his mothers arms.
Daenerys giggled at her children. It was lovely to watch them play.
Raegal was still sitting on the table, clearly more interested in the pile of cooked meat steaming against the stone floor.
Her other two children stopped arguing when they realized their mother wasn’t looking at them anymore, which meant that their attention turned towards the corpse in the room.
“No, you cannot eat him,” Daenerys said, “you will not eat the Maegi, you don’t know where it’s been. Or what it has been doing.”
Her children looked so sad. Rhaegal crooned out a pleading sound and Daenerys had never been so torn.
“None of that,” she chided, scooping Raegal into her arms, ignoring how he squeaked in protest, “I will not have your taste tainted by the flesh of a Maegi. They are rotten things you know.”
She turned and walked away.
~oOo~
Xaro Xhoan Daxos and Doreah were exactly where they had been before. Doreah laid peacefully in the bed with Xaro Xhoan Daxos beside her. They slumbered peacefully as members of Daenerys Khalasar entered the room. A few of her people moved silently to surround the bed.
It hurt to see Doreah laying in the bed of someone who would have her tied to him as nothing more than a status symbol. Doreah had taught her how to please Drogo, how to make her husband hers in more than name. It was a betrayal that still stung even after years.
Aggo ripped the necklace from around Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ neck with the curve of his arakh.
The man startled awake at the movement, sitting up in a flash of speed with vitriol on his tongue before he registered the Dothraki in the room.
Daenerys stared down at the circular key in her hand as it was passed to her. It was a pretty thing, useless but pretty. From their perches on her body, her children sniffed curiously at the necklace.
“Put them somewhere.” She commanded, her voice sure. She ignored how Doreah had awoken in the bed and was pleading tearfully, and handed the key to one of her bloodriders. “I have need for them so do not kill them. I don’t care what you do with them otherwise. And open his vault, I want to see if he truly is as rich as he says he is.”
She knew what wasn’t in the vault. She only needed the vault to be opened so that everyone else could see how empty it was. She knew the vault was empty, but Ser Jorah had heard the man boasting about his wealth almost as much as Daenerys had, given how the older man never strayed far from her.
“Come.” She commanded Ser Jorah, turning to leave as her bloodriders grabbed Xaro Xhoan Daxos and her former hand maid. She ignored how Doreah’s pleas grew louder as she begged her khaleesi for forgiveness.
She ordered the rest of her Khalasar to spread out and loot Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ palace and the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. She needed the gold and Jewels that the Thirteen liked to flaunt so openly. Her Khalasar were to collect the gold, jewels and expensive pelts and clothes. As her Khalasar went to do that, she had Ser Jorah accompany her to the Spice Kings quarters
“Where are we going Khaleesi?” The older man questioned as he followed her through the winding paths that connected the buildings that made up where the Thirteen resided.
“I need to get something.” She replied.
When the Spice Kings manse came into sight, Daenerys couldn’t help the way her pace picked up. She was running by the time she got to the room that was holding the dragon egg. The door was locked, but a quick stream of fire from Rhaegal solved that problem.
The egg was exactly where it had been before, sitting perfectly upon its velvet pillow. She took the egg into her hands, cradling it. Her heart soared as she felt the warmth emanating from inside of the scaled eggs. From her shoulders, Drogon and Viserion peered down at the egg with curious eyes, while Rhaegal sniffed at it from his place tangled around her arm. The green dragon chirped curiously.
Ser Jorah was hesitant as he stepped up beside her.
“…Is that another dragon egg?” The man asked, his voice filled with stunned disbelief.
Daenerys cradled the egg to her breast. The warm scales pressed into her skin through the fabric of her dress. Rhaegal crawled to the egg and draped himself over the egg like a blanket. Daenerys cooed down at her son.
“Have a pyre built, Ser Jorah, and have Xaro Xhoan Daxos and my handmaid brought before it.” She ordered softly, her eyes trained on the egg in her arms.
“…As you wish Khaleesi.”
She walked the streets then, with her children on her shoulders and an unborn infant in her arms. The pyre was built in the garden where the party that was held in her honor when she had first arrived in the city had been held. Furniture had been broken apart and piled high, and wooden decorations had been tossed in the pile as well. It wasn’t as well made as Drogo’s pyre had been, less intricate and more just a pile of wood.
It would suffice.
She watched as the last bits of tinder were piled high with a small smile on her face.
When Xaro Xhoan Daxos was led forward by two men from her Khalasar, his face was as pale as it could be for a man of his coloring. Doreah was brought forward right alongside the man. Her former handmaid crying and pleading as she was led towards the pile of wood.
“Khaleesi please, he said you would never leave Qarth alive!” The woman cried, tears streaming down her face. Daenerys had survived this betrayal before and she would do it again. Doreah would be serving a better purpose this time around than starving to death in a locked vault.
“You betrayed me, Doreah.” Daenerys replied idly, her voice cool. “I could have had you locked within the empty vault of the man you were sharing a bed with, but you will serve a better purpose.”
Doreah’s eyes went wide when she noticed the egg nestled carefully in Daenerys arms. Her gaze darted to the pyre and Daenerys could see the moment that the women realized what was going to happen.
Doreah started thrashing, screaming as she was dragged towards the unlit pyre.
“Khaleesi! Khaleesi please don’t do this!”
“Your death will bring life, Doreah.”
She motioned for her two prisoners to be tied to the pyre. They were dragged forwards, Doreah thrashing and wailing as she tried to break out of the arms holding her. Xaro Xhoan Daxos was shouting, promising her goods and boats and soldiers. Dead men always tried to plead for their life when they finally realized they had lost.
“Gag them.” She ordered
Doreah cried out around the cloth that was placed in her mouth, tears wetting her face. Xaro Xhoan Daxos strained against his bonds, a vein in his temple bulging as he tried to break free. The man's eyes were wild, the whites of his eyes standing out starkly against the darkness of his skin.
“Thank you, Xaro Xhoan Daxos. Thank you for teaching me this lesson. For me to not take the words of a handsome man at face value.”
“I am the king of Qarth! I can help you now, truly help you now!” Xaro Xhoan Daxos shouted as he was approached with his own gag, “We can take the Iron Throne, I’ll bring you a thousand ships! All that you dreamt of can be-!” He was cut off by the gag that was shoved into his protesting mouth.
“Your death will bring me another child,” she replied softly, “that is all I could ever want from you.”
She walked forwards with her children perched on her arms and shoulders, and the sea and silver egg cradled in her arms. She ignored Ser Jorah’s call for her to wait. The man was still overprotective, even after seeing her walk out of the funeral pyre. He thought her still the fearful little girl that he had counseled in confidence. And maybe, she had been in her last life.
She knew her actions in the future would prove her the opposite, but she couldn't wait for him to get over his fear.
She stepped between Xaro Choan Daxos and Doreah, ignoring muffled pleas from either side. She stepped up onto the pyre until she could turn to sit perched on top. She stared out at her Khalasar, at Ser Jorah, at the citizens of Qarth that were daring enough to come closer.
She didn’t hesitate.
“Dracarys.” She commanded. All three of her children opened their fanged jaws, their throats glowing before they spat triplet streams of fire into the pyre below. The wood went up in a tower of fire. Xaro Xhoan Daxos and Doreah were screaming in pain as the fire licked at their skin. Daenerys paid them no mind.
Her clothes were burning away under the heat and her children were basking in the heat of the flames. She kept her eyes trained downwards on the warming egg in her lap. As the fire built and the smoke started stinging her eyes, the egg grew hotter and hotter. She watched in wonder as the egg began to crack. The pale shell gave way under the pressure pushing at it from within. A tiny snout, smaller than her other children’s had been, pushed outwards. A tiny screeching mewl was what she heard as a tiny, delicate nose poked out of the hole in the shell.
Daenerys carefully used her fingers to crack the edges of the hole, making sure she was gentle as she peeled away bits of shell. As the last of the shell fell away, the little dragonling was able to crawl out of its shell. It was a tiny thing, with silver and sea foam glistening in the firelight. Daenerys could feel the baby’s mind buzzing against her own. Warm and airy as it came to life.
This one looked different from Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal. She, and it was a she, had a slimmer face and a longer neck. Her wings were bigger as well. She was smaller, her build delicate, made for speed and grace, where her siblings were built for war and brute force.
She looked like a piece of treasure where she sat curled in Daenerys lap. Drogon, brave as ever, climbed down her naked body to sniff at his new sister. His bulky black and red body contrasted so vividly against the baby’s pale coloring. Daenerys watched with fond eyes, her expression soft as she gazed down at her children. Following their brother, Rhaegal and Viserion climbed towards her lap to sniff and nudge at the fledgling. They seemed to accept the new dragon, she could feel it through the bond she shared with them. She could also feel the satisfaction of her presence and the warmth of the fire through the bond that tied them together.
The baby blinked open hazy silver eyes that gleamed like a fine opal. She was a gift, this daughter of hers. A beautiful gleaming gift. In her last life there had been no mention of other dragons or dragon eggs. She hadn’t thought to seek out any more eggs after her children had hatched, happy and content with only three. She would have been overwhelmed with more dragons before. If she had to deal with the masters and fight the wars she had fought, if she had to raise another dragon while her first three were terrorizing the countryside, she wouldn’t have survived.
But now? Now she knew how to control her children, how to guide them with a firm hand.
As the fire raged around them, her children curled together on her lap in a tangle of wings and tails. They were content to bask in the warmth of the fire.
What would she call this one, she wondered. She had no desire to name this innocent after another dead man like she had done before. If they hadn’t already been their names, Daenerys would’ve named Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal something else this time around. But she couldn’t take their names from them.
Arlinnōn, she decided, would suit her delicate little daughter nicely. The high Valyrian name meaning change, meaning metamorphosis. The birth of her daughter was the first of many changes that were to come. Daenerys would change her fate, change the fate of those dear to her. Ser Barriston, Missandei, Ser Jorah. She would keep her own safe in the years to come .
As the fire started dying around her, Daenerys could see her Khalasar staring at her and her children in awe. She rose to her feet, straining a bit at the weight of all her children in her arms, and shook the ash from her body.
“Arlinnōn!” she declared, shifting the bodies in her arms enough to show off her new daughter, “Your knew Khalakki! She will be swift as the wind and as beautiful as the endless sky!” Her voice was high and clear as she brandished her children for all to see.
As she spoke, her dragons lifted their small heads to lend their voices to hers, screeching their life for all to hear.
The Khalasar fell to their knees once again. “Khaleesi!” They cried out, their voices joyful as they chanted the names of her children. “Drogon! Rhaegal! Viserion! Arlinnōn!” they accepted the new dragon into the herd as if she had hatched right alongside the first three.