Chapter Text
The cold had never bothered Dany much, not when summer had always gracefully made way for winter and not when her journey had led her across the sea to lands covered in pure white. It had been a downright wondrous sight, as had been the sights she had seen across the sea, even as it had felt like each breath had brought frost into her lungs, chilling and invigorating all at once.
She had loved that ice, that frost, as much as she had loved the sand and endless grass plains, the free cities she had reigned over, as much as she had loved the heat of fire. She had felt drawn to it - and eventually to the man that had grown up in those wintry lands.
The same man who had just plunged a dagger into her with an expression of great suffering. She hadn’t seen it coming, hadn’t thought for a moment that he would turn on her now, after all was said and… done.
Her mind had been reeling, feeling strange and foggy for hours on end and she had tried to explain to herself why she had done all those… those horrifying things. Why she, Mhysa and Breaker of Chains, had laid waste to the smallfolk, those who always suffered first beneath warring lords and ladies. Everything had been a tangled mess between bitter victory and grieving loss. The loss of Missandei, the loss of another of her sons.
Loss, loss, loss.
Coming to Westeros had been nothing but loss. One thing after another tore at her heart, making the bits of her that were soft and gentle, that had survived all the awfulness of the world until then, bleed with grief. It had felt as though her mind had grown narrow and cold and… foggy. As though her world had been forcibly limited to only two options: surrender or conquest by all means necessary.
Even now her wounded heart hurt worse than the dagger as yet another loss tore through her. The loss of trust, the loss of a lover, the loss of a future. And yet, this was different than the loss of her sons and dearest friend. This was like bile at the back of her throat, the feeling of her beloved turning against her carrying an awfulness she found no words to describe with.
As she was lowered to the ground, with a gentleness she found herself despising, while Jon Snow looked as though he had been stabbed instead of her, she suddenly found herself utterly and completely alone. No one was there to come to her aid.
She was alone, alone like she had so often been when facing her worst moments over the years. Only this time she knew that even if she somehow, impossibly, clawed her way through this awful moment, nothing would wait for her on the other side. For a moment her mind flickered to Grey Worm, but he was far from here, taking care of Missandei’s last rites. She had planned to join him in a minute.
Now she would never see him again. Would never get to offer what comfort and condolences she could. Now she could never ask him if he wanted to still stay by her side, so they could build something Missandei would have been proud of together. Or if he would prefer to leave, to try and find what peace he could away from Kingslanding. Perhaps even away from Westeros.
As much as his loss would ache, she would place his comfort above her own needs for his friendship and company. Knowing he would be well taken care of, that he could always seek her out for any aid he needed would have been enough for her.
Then she heard it, the rumble of her last son. Her last surviving blood and he must’ve scented her own blood spilling forth, soaking into her clothing. The rumble grew into a warning growl and then the earth shook under his steps as he shouldered his way through the burnt down entrance, all scale and heat and rage and - and fear.
It felt like she merely blinked and he was coiled above her, Jon Snow diving out of the way of his fire as he opened his maw wide, snow melting into steaming puddles and the man only made it out alive, only managed to escape in the nick of time, because her son immediately turned to her.
She knew that dragons were more than rage and flame and hunger, had always known that beyond their untamable spirit, a spirit that only bowed to their chosen riders and never in submission, there was more to them. That they felt more.
Her sons had mourned each and every one of their lost brothers and in that last fight to avenge them all, Drogon’s rage and pain had matched her own as he had turned Kingslanding to ash and rubble. And now he was going to lose her, too, and he knew it. Dany knew it. She felt the hot stickiness of blood where she pressed her hand against the wound, her blood already soaking through her gloves.
Oh, her poor boy. The last dragon of the world. She knew what would happen to him then and there: he would not be allowed to live. Just like all dragons before him, he would find himself hunted down before he grew even more. He would not be allowed to exist, if only so that those grieving his attacks could avenge the death he had wrought.
Most of all, however, people would fear him and what he represented. The danger he was, the possibility that somewhere, somehow, there was still Targaryen blood surviving in a hidden corner and that he would claim that blood, would rise to fight against the Realm once more. Bigger and older and even more dangerous. No, they were not going to let him live.
It filled her with pain and a hot, searing anger, a mother’s protective rage and she wished she could be big. Big as Balerion had been rumored to be, big enough to coil around him and protect him no matter what. Big enough to not be messed with ever again. To protect him and the cities she had freed and everyone else who needed a safe haven.
It was all she had ever wanted and she wished she knew why she had attacked King’s Landing the way she had. She hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t meant to. She had just… done it.
She raised a trembling hand to press against her son’s jaw, helpless to do anything else. She didn’t have the strength to move, couldn’t even draw a full breath with how much she hurt. She had gotten hurt so often and she was so tired of it. She was tired in general.
"Forgive me," she rasped out after gathering herself, her stomach now searing with pain and she wondered if this was what it felt like to get burnt. To have fire inside herself that could harm her.
Drogon made a low noise, one he had only ever made twice before, both times when his brothers had fallen and then he straightened. He reached for her, claws curling around her with a gentleness that made her heart hurt in a different and new way and he took flight with her oh so carefully clutched in his claws. Her vision grew dark for a moment, before she forced herself to focus.
He flew fast, she realized, with a desperation she hadn’t seen in him before, seeking something, trying to do something. Maybe find a safe place. At least he was leaving King’s Landing before people turned on him. It gave him a sliver of a chance to survive. She so desperately wanted him to live.
But she also didn’t want him to be alone. Alone like she was, with no other Targaryen around, with Missandei dead and Grey Worm… she hoped he’d be alright. She hoped all the warriors that had gathered under her banner, believing in her and following her, would be safe. That they would not be hunted down and slaughtered, especially once Westeros gathered their forces. Oh, the Dothraki were going to cause a bloodbath and she could see Grey Worm picking up a blade to avenge her, to avenge Missandei, too.
So many of them would die, however, and she wished she could stop it. She wished she could coil around them, too, massive and dangerous, full of a fire that burnt all that dared to turn against those she loved, those she guarded.
She hoped the freed cities would remain free, but deep down she knew better. She hadn’t ruled long enough, hadn’t established the new norm for long enough to keep things from backsliding. There were still too many powerful people left who hungered for how things had been, who had liked it.
She had seen it in their eyes, even as they had sworn allegiance to her, had promised to follow her guidance into a new tomorrow. She had needed their power, though, had needed at least some stability remaining in the cities so trade could still take place and they wouldn’t collapse economically. She had intended to weed out the bad seeds one by one, transferring their power to trusted, better-hearted people, so she could ensure that her cities and its citizens thrived.
But everything she had fought for was for nothing. She should have stayed, she couldn’t help but think. She should have stayed across the sea and ruled there. Ensured people remained safe and free and maybe, in a few years, with her sons large and grown and powerful enough to not be so quickly felled by powerfully flung spears, maybe then she could have turned her gaze to King’s Landing.
And sure, maybe the threat beyond the Wall would have emerged by then, but she could have bartered for a more peaceful ascension to the Iron Throne before lending her aid. Her aid and her sons’ fires for a crown, along with support from her cities, food and medicine and soldiers, so the people in Westeros wouldn’t starve and die.
But that was all a moot point now, wasn’t it? She was dying and all she could do, for Drogon, at least, if for no one else, was try to hold on a little bit longer. To delay the pain her death would cause. Only for him, though, because it hurt and she was cold and so very alone.
All she could do now was breathe and cling to life and think about how foolish and impatient she had been. How young.
Her eyes started to fall closed and Drogon’s roar shook her awake again and he seemed to fly even faster. Where to? Maybe to whatever lair he had lived in while being wild and free.
She wished she could stay there with him. Wanted nothing more than to stay at his side and protect him and watch over him as he grew. To fly just one more time through the sky with him. She wanted that more than her birthright, than a crown. She wanted Missandei, she wanted to see her friend and Grey Worm happy, to see them smile with joy and love just one more time.
She drifted in and out of consciousness more and more as Drogon flew, the wind whistling past and the ocean spreading below. It grew dark at one point and her eyes fell closed.
She hadn’t expected to wake, but she did. Again and again, even as she felt her strength dwindling more and more. No matter where Drogon was headed, if he knew of someone who could be of aid, it would be too late when he arrived.
At last a shore came into view again and he did land now, so very carefully setting her down on moss covered stone. Old Valyria stood before them, broken and dead. Maybe that had always been their fate as Targaryens, she couldn’t help but think. Maybe all her ancestors had accomplished by escaping Old Valyria was to buy a few more centuries for themselves. Centuries of strive and death and decay.
Steps approached and Drogon neither growled nor spat fire, though he remained close, offering his warmth and he watched with sharp, fierce eyes as a woman came to a stop before them.
She was dressed in dark, bloody red and Dany vaguely recognized her as a priestess of the Lord of Light.
"It is too late for her," the red-clad woman said, quiet sorrow in her voice. "My Lord has spoken, this world is not for her anymore. If she dies now, she will not rise again."
Now her dragon growled, low and deep, rumbling and threatening and his tail whipped around to coil protectively in front of Dany as he leaned a bit more over her. She sensed the rage and grief in him, the fear to lose her. To be all alone in the world.
"However, there is something that can be done," the woman added and took a step closer, leaning forward slightly to make eye-contact with Dany now. "This world is no longer for you, but there is a time and place where you are sorely needed. A chance to change history for the better, if it is your hand that steers it. I have seen it in the flames and my Lord and I are willing to take this wager."
Drogon pulled back slightly, allowing the woman to approach, though he kept a close and wary eye on her.
"Daenerys Stormborn," the woman said. "Will this be your end? Or will you rise one more time? A last time, that is all we ask."
Only for her son.
She was so, so terribly tired and she hurt and she grieved, but… for him. For her dragon. She’d get up one more time. She could not leave her son alone in this world. To face the wrath her inexplicable actions would inevitably bring. He deserved more than to be hunted until he laid dead and broken at the feet of his pursuers.
Dead and broken, like she. Like Old Valyria. What kind of mother wanted that fate for her last surviving son? For any of her children?
"Yes," she rasped out with the last of her strength and the woman smiled, the sorrow vanishing from her face the way a warm spring sun made the last trace of snow melt.
"Close your eyes," she said softly, kneeling down by Dany’s head. "When you wake, you must be ready to face a world that is not yours, but that you can make your own if you so desire."
The woman reached for her. "Your body will heal, but the wounds of your soul are your own to mend. Worry not, your dragon will accompany you. Now, sleep, you must recover and your son has some growing left to do so you are both ready. Rest while you can, for you will be born into the storm once more."
Her eyes fell closed, just as the woman’s hands settled on her, one over her bleeding wound and one over her eyes, while her dragon’s snout pressing against her arm with a low, deep rumble. She exhaled a last time and her end in this life found her.
*.*.*
The first thing Dany heard was a crash of thunder so loud and powerful it seemed to rattle every single bone in her body, her heart feeling like it got struck back to life. She jerked awake with a ragged gasp, rain suddenly thrumming down like it had only waited in suspension for her to come back to her senses.
Her fingers scratched over tough, black scale and she heard a rumble, far deeper than before, but still familiar in it’s cadence. She would always and forever recognize her last living child. Drogon.
Lifting her head, she felt the wind tear at her clothes, her hair whipping and tangling into a rain-matted mess, the force of the downpour intent on flattening her against her dragon’s back. A storm was raging as fiercely as the one she was said to have been born into, thunder making the world shake and thick clouds releasing more rain than ever making it impossible to see anything.
Drogon felt massive beneath her, as though he had had years more to grow. Gone was the sleek, slimness of adolescence and instead he was a fully grown dragon, powerful and fierce and he roared his joy to have her awake. To have her alive. To be reunited.
And then, over the crash of thunder, Daenerys heard the sound of more dragons. Not her children, she would always recognize them, her sons still laid dead in a life she had left behind. Those were other dragons and one sounded young, sounded like her dear boys when she had locked them up, thinking it the safest solution back then. Oh, how she regretted that now. How foolish she had been.
The second dragon she heard sounded massive, bigger even than Drogon, releasing a roar that rumbled as loud as the thunder, as fierce as the storm that tried so viciously to tear her from her dragon’s back.
She heard shouts above the storm, like someone trying to stop something, but the voices were washed out over the storm, she managed to barely make out a single word, cried in desperate panic: No!
She had to get out of here, wherever here was.
Drogon easily listened as she guided him, more instinct than rational thought making her direct him. They needed to get out of the storm, they needed to try and see what was going on, who the dragons were - why there were dragons. Soaring upward, Drogon broke past the cloud cover, just in time for her to see a far smaller dragon emerge further ahead, a young boy on its back.
The boy looked barely ten and three summers old and his rain-wet face was frightened. His eyes grew even wider upon spotting her and Dany had no idea who he was or what was going on. She barely had had a second to even come to terms with the fact that she was alive again and the storm was still raging fiercely just below them, thunder rolling through the air once more, loud enough to drown out any and all other noise.
She intended to fly past the child, Drogon easily and swiftly circling around the small dragon and its young rider when she saw the shadow loom behind the child, saw the large maw emerge and opening like the gates to death. She saw the child’s pale, terrified face and she reacted without much thought.
Drogon banked sharply, just barely scraping past the young dragon that squawked in alarm, to collide with the other dragon. A massive maw snapped shut as Drogon used the other dragon’s chest and neck to push himself off of it, claws scraping across its muzzle and shoulders, just barely missing the wing joint and the rider - the rider looked so small compared to his gigantic dragon, staring up at her with a wide, wide eye and slack mouth, silver hair wet and whipping in the wind.
The next moment, Drogon dove back into the thunderstorm, nature’s wrath embracing them like it never wanted to let them go. Like it wanted to hold on to Dany and her son with all it’s might.
Dany heard the enraged roar of the massive dragon and threw a quick glance over her shoulder, saw the dark, huge shape banking in order to follow and she heard the rider’s shouted orders that went ignored.
They raced off into the storm, the massive dragon following in their wake, her heart leaping into her throat, but the other dragon was a little bit slower - the price for it’s size - and they were faster. She and Drogon were still riding the high of escaping the maws of death of her old life - or rather, of having died and been brought back here.
She guided her son through the storm as they tried to escape the enraged, huge dragon on their tail. They were a team after all the battles they had fought and he listened without question, trusted her judgement and he dove down sharply, wings tucked close. Their only advantage right now was the storm and how it made it nearly impossible to see anything.
Dany pressed herself flat, only the past fights on dragon-back ensuring she wasn’t ripped away by the fierce winds and blown around like a leaf in the wind. A few more light touches against black, heated scales and Drogon snapped out his wings, banking sharp to the side, a wingtip touching a raging, rising ocean wave and behind her, Dany heard the booming crash of the massive dragon hitting the surface, it’s wings beating hurriedly as it avoided going under at the last second.
That gave her and Drogon all the time they needed to get away, her dragon gaining speed quickly and she exhaled heavily when she could no longer hear the loud beats of massive wings behind them, like castle-sized sails snapping in the wind.
They flew onward, fast and fierce and then the storm slowly started to lighten until finally they left it behind, no more rain thrumming down, though clouds still covered the sky. Looking up, she wiped water from her face, feeling exhausted and a little shaky. She blinking her vision clear of rain and she exhaled with relief when she saw the small dragon flying away swiftly in the far distance.
Somewhere out there, a mother didn’t have to mourn the death of her child, like she had mourned again and again. Still… dragons? Why were there dragons when last she remembered her sons had been the only ones? And such a massive one to boot.
"Let’s find somewhere to land," she told Drogon, who rumbled back. He beat his wings to soar higher and then his wing-beats smoothed out, turning their flight into a steady glide rather than a rapid race for escape.
Dany looked back, but the massive dragon was nowhere to be seen. Pressing a hand to her chest, she willed her heart to calm down from it’s war-drum beat. Then her hand fell to her belly, feeling along her drenched clothes. There, she found the slit where the dagger had broken past armor and embroidered cloth, but there was no pain, no blood. Only scarred skin.
She had healed. Looking at Drogon she took in how much larger he was now, his wings spanning far to both sides and it was a breathtaking sight. He was likely as fully grown as he was going to get, she realized. Or rather, whatever growing he still had to do would be a slow, centuries long thing.
But it didn’t matter how big or how small he was, so long as he lived. Her son would always be her pride and joy.
The next moment she found her breath hitching and then she was sobbing, pressing her forehead to his scales, the heat of his body chasing away the chill of the wind on her sodden clothes. She wept for the impossible chance to be with him still, to look after him and save him if necessary. If she could. The last dragon and the last Targaryen, at least they could look after each other.
She wept for all that she had lost next, for the pain that had branded her heart, for the loss that had claimed her bones like a ghost haunting an empty home. For the children that would never get to see another sunrise.
She wept for everything that had been and never would be and maybe, she wept for herself a little, as well. For the betrayal and loneliness she felt. For always having to fight, every step of the way, even for the simplest things. Her birth had been a battle and so had been her entire, following life.
Drogon rumbled, a low, soothing noise and she slowly pulled herself together like she always had. There was no other choice, after all, and she had survived too much to give up. There was always a way forward, always a light after the darkness.
Even if this time the light had come in the shape of a red-clad woman and… what exactly had happened? And who had those riders just now been?
Dragons. There were dragons in this world and they weren’t her last surviving son. For all the anxiety that came with the thought that she currently knew nothing about the world she lived in, she also found a deep gladness within herself. Dragons. Dragons still lived.
Even if she should fall again in the future, if another blade should find her flesh, in this world at least Drogon wouldn’t be alone. He would not be hunted, known as the Mad Queen’s mount. Killed because they could no longer kill her, and because they feared him.
Why had she burned King’s Landing? Even now, as she tried to sort her thoughts, taking deep breaths to soothe the grief and pain back into a quiet state, it didn’t make sense. She had wanted to avenge Missandei, yes, but she had wanted Cersei’s head for it, not the city’s.
And yet… and yet it had almost felt like her thoughts hadn’t been her own anymore. Her actions had been made as though someone had pulled her strings. It didn’t make sense, but it had happened, she had done those things and she would forever live with the memories of it.
The screams, the people that were fleeing and dying. People she had wanted to protect instead turned to bone and ash. Children weeping over dead parents and parents weeping over dead children. Families torn apart, homes crushed and lives ruined.
She wished, among many other things, that she could take back those actions. Could undo it, but that power was not hers. She was mortal, like anyone and everyone else and this guilt would live with her for as long as she did.
She closed her eyes and just let the wind wash over her, the breeze smelling of storms and the sea and she allowed herself to just… be, for a moment. To be herself without the string of titles she had amassed. Titles that meant nothing now. Not here.
Not when she knew, deep in her bones, that her old world was gone, turned to dust and ash and swept away by blood and snow and sorrow.
She opened her eyes and faced forward once more and Drogon rumbled, dark and deep, at the determination he felt awaken in her. Flickering, tired, but there all the same. She’d keep walking forward. She’d keep enduring, for she must. For her son, if no one else.
She would find enough strength for one more walk, for one more battle. To gather herself to get up one last time, tired and worn and scarred inside and out. One last time, she owed her son that much. She owed Missandei and Grey Worm that much.
And so, Daenerys was reborn once more, through a storm as vicious as the one that had first given birth to her and miles away, trembling and with tears drying on his cheeks, a little boy got to return home.
Miles away in the other direction, a one-eyed rider sat slumped atop his gigantic dragon, forehead pressed against the saddle, taking deep breaths to calm down, hands feeling shaky with relief, while Vhagar rumbled in only slowly cooling rage.
He was glad, secretly and deep down. So glad, that the boy hadn’t died. He hadn’t wanted that and he had never felt so powerless as the moment he no longer had control over his dragon, condemned to become a bystander, to do nothing but pray, hoping that Arrax would get away in time.
And then another dragon, large, though smaller than Vhagar still, and as black as Balerion had been rumored to be, had come out of nowhere and saved them all.
For today, at least, they all got to return home.
For today, at least, there would be no war.