ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 29: The Birth of Fire
POV: Daenerys Targaryen (298 AC)
The clouds are the first thing I see upon awakening.
They float, majestic and indifferent, tearing through the vast blue sky above the Dothraki Sea. They are free in a way that we, mere mortals chained to the dust of the earth, can only dream of achieving. Looking up at them from down here, lying on a bed of still-warm ashes, I realize that the clouds know no kings, do not weep for fallen husbands, and never bleed for stolen thrones. They simply exist, untouchable at the top of the world.
Slowly, the fog in my mind begins to dissipate, bringing back the memories of the previous night. I remember perfectly walking toward the pyre of my sun and stars. I remember the unbearable heat that should have melted my flesh, but instead caressed me like a familiar cloak. And, above all, I remember the screams of agony from Mirri Maz Duur. The witch sang her blood prayers until her voice cracked and turned into a purely animalistic howl, exactly the fate she deserved. I burned the treachery along with the body of my Drogo.
When I finally try to move, I feel small weights upon my body. Looking down, my heart stops for a millisecond before beating again with a renewed, divine strength. The gods took everything from me. They took my sun and stars, tore little Rhaego from my womb before he could even breathe, but they did not leave me alone in the vastness of the world.
Three small, scaly beings with bright eyes are clinging to me.
One of them, black as the darkest night and with wings tinged a vivid scarlet, crawls across my chest, letting out a sharp hiss that causes smoke to escape from its tiny nostrils. Another, green as the deep sea, gently bites the tips of my fingers, while the third, with pale, cream-like golden scales, rests upon my thigh.
I stand up slowly, feeling the morning breeze hit my naked skin. Before me, the remnants of Drogo's *khalasar* stand static, paralyzed by shock. The ashes of the pyre cover my body like a grey armor, but the most drastic change is on my head: all of my long, silver hair was completely devoured by the flames. I am bald, my smooth scalp exposed, leaving only my violet eyes shining intensely against the grime of the charcoal.
The first to break the trance and notice me is Ser Jorah Mormont. He advances with trembling steps, his brown eyes wide in a mixture of reverent terror and adoration. His coarse, stocky features, his robust body covered in dark hair on his arms and broad chest, seem to bow before the impossible. He falls heavily to his knees upon the hard-packed earth.
"— Khaleesi... — he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, before crying out with outstretched arms: — Blood of my blood!"
Soon, the remaining warriors, the handmaidens, and the elders join him. Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo fall to their knees, striking their fists against their chests. The clamor echoes across the barren plain as the Dothraki, the fear transforms into blind loyalty. I am no longer just a Khaleesi without a khalasar; I am the Mother of Dragons.
My handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui, quickly guide me into the tent to cleanse me. Their hands tremble as they use damp cloths to wipe the soot from my skin. As the clean water reveals the intact whiteness of my body, I remain silent. The hours pass in a grey blur. My mind cannot stop replaying the events that brought me here. I lost my husband, I lost my son on the very same day... and now I have three hungry dragons chirping around me, demanding scorched meat.
Through the leather opening of the tent, my eyes find the firmament. Even under the clear light of day, the red comet remains there, a bloody scar tearing through the sky. It appeared at the exact same time as the birth of my children. It is a sign.
I cannot prevent my thoughts from flying west, crossing the salty waters to the Iron Throne that was stolen from my family by the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, and his hounds of war. My brother Viserys spent his entire life screaming about how the continent clamored for the return of the dragon. But Viserys is dead, crowned with molten gold by his own arrogance. Now, the chessboard of the world has changed. The blood of Valyria has awakened.
However, pride does not fill stomachs. Hunger and thirst will kill us long before we see the shores of Westeros if I do not resolve our immediate situation. We are surrounded by enemy *khalasars* led by men like Pono and Jhaqo, who would not hesitate to enslave me and steal my hatchlings. Faced with this, I make the most dangerous decision: we will cross the Red Waste in search of refuge. It is a land of death, but it is the only place where my enemies will not dare to follow me.
Days later, the dust and suffocating heat of the Red Waste begin to test the limits of our small group. We ride past horse carcasses and cracked soil. As we advance on this grueling journey, with the small black dragon perched upon my shoulder, my mind turns to the stories Viserys used to tell about Westeros. Specifically, about a kingdom that always seemed to be an anomaly on the maps: the mysterious, gélid, and mythical kingdom of the North.
To understand what awaits us on the other side of the world, I know I have someone by my side who knows that land better than anyone. I command my bloodriders to bring Ser Jorah into my presence.
The knight of Westeros brings his mount close to mine. He looks exhausted, his skin burned by the relentless desert sun, sweat soaking his worn tunic. Still, he bows with respect, maintaining control of his reins.
"— Did you call for me, Khaleesi?"
"— Ser Jorah — I begin, looking out at the red vastness before us. — You lived in the North for a long time, correct?"
"— Yes, Khaleesi — he answers, and a shadow of bitterness crosses his rustic features. — I was the Lord of Bear Island. A small house, sworn to Winterfell. Until I was forced to flee, exiled as a criminal by the King of the North."
I tighten my horse's reins, intrigued.
"— Then you came to know my kin who live there? — I ask, referring to Rhaegar's lineage that found shelter in the frozen lands."
Jorah nods slowly, his eyes losing themselves in memories.
"— Yes, I saw them. I saw all of them at the great tourney held right after the North's crushing victory against the Greyjoys. I was there when the dust settled."
I already knew part of that story. Many wealthy merchants and powerful sailors from the Free Cities who passed through Pentos told us of the Greyjoy Rebellion. They spoke, in whispers filled with awe, of how the King Stark's magical fleet obliterated the Ironborn and how the islands and the castle of Pyke had been turned into a wasteland of death and eternal ice.
"— And how were they? — I question, seeking any detail about the blood of my blood."
"— From what I saw, everyone lived in peace and was terrifyingly healthy — Jorah reports, adjusting himself in his saddle. — Princess Elia Martell and her children seemed to have found a sanctuary."
That was something that hammered constantly inside my head. Why didn't Ser Willem Darry take us to the North when our mother died on Dragonstone? My mother wanted us to go there; Viserys once told me this while he was drunk and weeping in frustration. I suppose the old knight who protected us feared that the young King of the North had nefarious plans or would hand us over to the Usurper. But looking back, I cannot help but think what our lives would have been like had we grown up there. With Lady Elia caring for us like a mother, alongside Ser Willam Dustin, whom the merchants called "the Just." We would have grown up with our niece and nephew, Rhaenys and Aegon... and with young Aemon.
My mental gears turn as I remember Aemon, the son my brother Rhaegar had with the wolf-woman Lyanna Stark. Viserys hated the mere mention of that woman's name, calling her a northern bitch who seduced our brother and ruined the dynasty, and he used to call down curses upon the boy, calling him a bastard of the wolves. But I... I recognize him as my kin. He has the blood of Rhaegar running through his veins, even if he wears clothes of leather and ice.
I adjust my posture in the saddle, feeling the warmth of the black dragon against my bald neck, and adopt the haughty tone that befits the heir of Valyria.
"— Very well. When my dragons grow and I fly with them to Westeros to reclaim what is mine by right, I will not burn the entire North for its past crimes. I will show a shred of clemency to the Stark King for sheltering my own. The last King of the North knelt before Aegon the Conquerorand his dragon. The current king will be intelligent enough to do the same."
Unlike what I expected, the exiled knight did not have the reaction of pride or agreement I imagined. Instead, Ser Jorah's face paled subtly beneath the scorching desert sun. He swallowed hard, and the fear I saw in his eyes was not the fear of the waste or of the Dothraki. It was the fear of a memory.
"— Blood of my blood... — Jorah began, his voice lower, almost a defensive whisper. — I have been away from the North for a long time, so I do not know what miracles or sorceries have been wrought there in recent years. But I knew King Arawyn Stark before I was banished. And I know that... whatever rules the Winter is not like us."
"— What do you mean by that, ser? He is but a man."
"— No, Khaleesi. He does not think like us. He does not operate under the same rules. That is not human. — Jorah continued, his tone heavy with grim seriousness. — To treat Arawyn Stark as just an ordinary man who commands a little magic is a fatal mistake that someone will only make once in their lifetime. Do not underestimate him. If there is anyone in this world capable of facing a dragon, or devising a runic way to pull it from the skies... it is that man."
I feel a pang of irritation at his words. The Targaryen pride Viserys planted within me stirs.
"— Aegon had Balerion, and the North knelt without a single drop of blood being spilled. Torrhen Stark was wise. Arawyn will do the same when fire crosses his borders."
Ser Jorah looked at me, fixing his brown eyes onto my violet ones. There was a heavy pause in the middle of the desert, broken only by the sound of horse hooves cracking the dry earth.
"— Arawyn is not Torrhen, Khaleesi — he fired back, firm."
I notice immediately that he wanted to say something more. His lips moved slightly, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the reins, but he held back, swallowing his next words and turning his gaze toward the horizon line.
It was no secret what he had left implied in that cowardly silence. Ser Jorah did not need to finish the sentence for me to understand the weight of his warning. He meant that Arawyn was not Torrhen... because I was not Aegon the Conqueror either. At least, not yet.
Following that warning, I keep the silence to myself, but I feel that the shadow of that distant, mysterious king sits heavily upon the shoulders of the exiled knight. The North seems to have transformed into something beyond the comprehension of the men of the South.
I look back up at the sky, where the clouds continue their free, untouchable march above the scorching sands of the Red Waste. I dismiss Jorah's dread deep within my mind. There is nothing in this world that can defeat a dragon. Not even the clouds would be untouchable if someone were mounted atop a fire-spitting beast. Fire is sovereign.
Still, there is a spark of truth in what he says that makes me stay alert. The world is not the same one my brother described in his delusions of grandeur. But now, it is no time to lose sleep thinking about a wolf king who is thousands of leagues away, isolated within his walls of ice. My immediate priority is to keep my people alive, find water in the red immensity, and secure the support and allies necessary for my cause to breathe.
I stroke the head of the small black dragon on my shoulder, feeling its warmth purify the cold air of the approaching evening. The red comet continues to guide us. My journey toward the Iron Throne has begun, and if the North refuses to bend its knees when the time comes... then we shall find out if their ice can withstand the fire of Valyria.