The cell was dark, yet the only one in the squalid prison that was made sure to be completely dry. It was a dishonor that even the Lannisters couldn't bring themselves to do, forcing someone of the highest blood to endure conditions more suited for a lower born noble, let alone that of a commoner. But despite such a status, the indignity and shame of it all was overpowering. Most great nobles - especially those from Valyria, in which strength and honor approached zealotry among the great dragonlords - found in this position would be found by their guards with their wrists slit or hanging from a makeshift noose. It was the only way to reclaim their honor.
Not so for Daenerys Stormborn. Queen of House Targaryen, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons, strict orders from the Iron Throne were that she be kept alive no matter what. None of the guards were allowed to beat her or touch her, though she often heard the screams of the other prisoners through the small bars that served as the only window in the cell. Haunting her. Threatening to break her.
I am the blood of the dragon. A dragon is not a slave, and will not break.
You may already have broken.
Trying not to cry, most of the time she was curled in a ball in the corner of the cell. Reflecting on her mistakes - forgetting Euron's fleet. Diving into the hail of fire to save her ships, only for Drogon to twist and turn in frantic evasive maneuvers. Sending her into the bay, picked up only because Euron's crewmen spotted her falling from the great dragon.
How did this happen? Three dragons. A horde of Dothraki screamers, crack Unsullied spearmen, the vast fleets of Slaver's Bay and the Iron Islands, two of the great houses of Westeros sworn to fight for her… All whittled away and decimated. The last two due to her Hand's wrongful advice. Daenerys knew Tyrion didn't mean for them to fail, didn't intentionally sabotage her - perhaps his soft spot for his family clouded his judgment, or he was too cocky. The demise of Yara Greyjoy, Olenna Tyrell, and the Sand Snakes was not what Dany concentrated on, though. It was the rest, caused by one and one alone...
Jon…
Resting in this dark cell, suffering the same as her beloved children suffered in the bowels of the Great Pyramid - turnabout quite fair play - Daenerys' mind always came back to Jon Snow. The Northern Fool that had showed up at her palace in Dragonstone spinning tales of dead men in the snow. The Northern Fool that would risk his life on idiotic missions all in the name of duty. The Northern Fool that would hew to such rigid duty except for when it mattered.
The Northern Fool that had stolen her heart. Made her feel feelings she swore long before never to allow, lest they weaken her.
Not a northern fool. A dragon.
Blood of my blood.
A man ruled by his honor, unless it involved her. Any ordinary woman would have been flattered, swooning over the handsome northern warrior that fancied them so much to even ditch his responsibilities to sweep her up in his arms. But not Daenerys. Not the Mother of Dragons, one of the last dragons, someone concerned with making sure that House Targaryen survived and thrived upon the restoration she would win for them…
And yet she swooned all the same. In the cold cell, warmth flooded through Daenerys at thoughts of Jon - her brave, beautiful Northern Fool. Heat flushing in her core at the passionate nights they shared, the words of love passing from his lips. They empowered her, drove a meaning through her where she had once only felt emptiness.
"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing." The words of her long lost great-uncle, Aemon. And it was true. Even one moment without Jon threatened to destroy her.
He refused his duty. The Dragon Queen in her focused on this, clung to this. Demanded that this be the resolve going forward…
As she sat in the cell, a failure in all but explicit name, another part of her thought something different. A part of her growing, forced to confront her true desires, nestled deep within the royal walls and queenly masks of duty forged by her in the deserts of Qarth, the bloody streets of Slaver's Bay, and the fields of Westeros. He sees you as his duty. Wrapping her arms around her, Daenerys found she wanted nothing more than to be his duty - and for him to be hers.
Nothing else seemed to matter… and it scared her.
At that point the door to the cell opened, and she braced for the upcoming strong hands gripping her limbs for feedings, as if she would breathe dragonfire unto them as Drogon or Rhaegal. It didn't seem like the time, but Daenerys had no sense of timing anymore. There was no sunlight, no clock, no sense of routine. But… none of that happened. There wasn't even a voice, only a shadow obscuring the low light of the hallway. Against her newfound instincts as a prisoner, she glanced over her shoulder...
To be met with the smug sneer of the personification of evil on this earth - undisputed for the crown with the Night King obliterated. "Well well, look how the mighty have fallen." Cersei was obviously enjoying this. "I know you wanted to prove your superiority while flying atop that beast of yours into the dragonpit, but now it is I who looks down upon you." Pure hate and bitterness clouded everything about Cersei's appearance, aside from the round swell of her stomach, within a completely innocent life.
Another Lannister, the family that helped destroy mine.
The Starks helped, but you love Jon.
Jon is a dragon, like me.
Daenerys narrowed her eyes, glaring at Cersei as she had the masters of Yunkai and Meereen.
"If you came here to see me beg for my life, you will be going to your chambers empty handed."
The Lannister bitch laughed heartily, voice giddy. Ser Jaime had told her back in Winterfell that Cersei's expressions and words were becoming more and more like Joffrey by the day. Given what Joffrey had done, it only exemplified the righteousness of her cause. "You will eventually beg, especially after I send Lord Varys or my monster of a brother your fingers one by one."
"You wouldn't dare harm me. My dragons will burn your armies to the ground. Leave your babe nothing but ash within your stomach…"
A resounding slap echoed through the cell as Cersei's anger flushed her cheeks a dark crimson. Her fists clenched, contemplating for Ser Gregor to take the girl's insolent hand as retribution for such a threat. But a kick from the babe within her spread calm through the lioness' form. She would prove Maggie the Frog wrong. By bearing a fourth child, and by not allowing the younger beauty before her to destroy all she had built. "That is true, and as long as you are here, your dragons will not touch me." Daenerys felt her heart sink… knowing it to be true. "Perhaps they would, though without a rider the dragons will likely revert to feral beasts. My Hand has assured me of such." A smirk curled on her mouth. "I heard the Bastard of Winterfell rode one. It would be fitting for another Stark to burn under a dragon's gaze…"
"DO NOT SPEAK OF HIM!" It was Dany's turn to thunder, fingers bared like claws to carve deep lines down the face of the Mad Lioness, but a backhand across the face from Ser Gregor sent her to the ground. Blood dripping from a cut in her lip.
Cersei's eyes sparkled. "Ah, it appears the Dragon Queen does have a weakness. Love…" She almost spat out the world. "All your armies, all your dragons, wasted because of your love of a bastard." The lioness laughed derisively. "A woman's power is between her legs, but strength turns to weakness when they fall in love. Weak. You are weak, while I am strong. Such will be your undoing. Will be his undoing." Her laugh only grew. "Ned Stark's bastard… he'd trade the entire world to me just to get you back alive, the fool."
Lungs sucked in air, fighting back tears from the sting upon her face. "He will kill you all," Daenerys hissed. Do not wake the dragon. "Leave your armies a pile of ash."
"I shall make sure Greyjoy or Strickland kills him first then." Turning to leave, she cast one last look upon Dany. "My only order is that his head will be brought here, for you to look upon before I have Ser Ilyn behead you." Her eyes twinkled triumphantly. "The mighty Dragon Queen, destroyed by love as her brother before her. Oh, how my father would have laughed." The door slammed shut, the last glimpse Dany having were the Mountain's monstrous eyes.
An Unsullied guard opened the door to the hall of the Painted Table as Jon walked… no stormed in to find the remaining members of Daenerys' small council waiting around the famous map table for his arrival. All anxious, all shocked that the former King of the North arrived so quickly. And upon Rhaegal, no less.
Two of those in the room knew exactly why, Tyrion gripping his second flagon of wine that day while Varys sat with his hands clasped together, outwardly placid but the gears turning within his scheming mind.
Face wet from the salty spray of the ocean, covered in the grime of marching and eyes red from lack of sleep, Jon still looked every inch his father's son. His real father. Two sets of minds realized. "Where is the Queen?" The sight upon arriving at Dragonstone had both terrified and angered Jon. Rhaegal wounded and frantic within the Riverlands was one thing, nearly driving him to abject terror...
But on the island where Daenerys had been born… where Rhaegar Targaryen, his sire, had resided as Prince. It was chaotic, Unsullied ferrying equipment from gutted hulks of ships beached upon the shore. Drogon had appropriated the cliffside closest to the castle, silent and still. No charred skeletons laid around him, the dragon clearly not having eaten in a while. Jon, not approaching for fear of a hostile reaction, nevertheless could see Drogon's wounds from a distance. Wounds much more severe than Rhaegal's.
Jon wanted answers, and was determined to get them from the morose small council.
If watching Jon arriving on Rhaegal shocked Varys, the Master of Whisperers did not display it openly. "Welcome back to Dragonstone, my Lord. In this time of… turmoil," the Spider chose his words carefully. Voice as sweet as syrup. "We need a steady hand for the ship of state, and I am confident you shall deliver such."
Jon eyed Varys warily. This was a man who had served five monarchs. Shamelessly passing from one reign to the next without a care. Such effusive praise didn't strike him as someone loyal to Daenerys frantically welcoming another loyalist to stabilize a chaotic situation. Rather… something else… 'Gods, did Sansa tell him?'
"Spare me the flowery words, Lord Varys," Jon finally said. He looked at Tyrion. "Where is Daenerys?"
The Hand to the Queen shifted uncomfortably. "Ummmm… she is not here." He knew not why he hesitated, only that he could see a fire burning in the northerner's eyes, simmering and waiting to explode into an inferno. Dragonfire. Tyrion lost all doubt as to Jon's parentage at that moment, the fire so alike to the Queen's.
Fire that was only stoked further. "Not here? NOT HERE?!" Jon forced himself to calm down, but the deep breaths only expanded the flames raging inside him. "Rhaegal fleeing to me, scorpion bolt in his neck! Drogon bruised and battered with wounds, laid on the cliffs without making a sound? Hulks of ships battered upon the beach? What in seven hells happened?!"
"Euron Greyjoy attacked our fleet," Missandei stated flatly, answering when the other two refused to. While Tyrion was nervous, and even Grey Worm found his lips pursed in a worried line, the usually cheerful translator was calm. Emotionless. "Wounded both dragons, and knocked her Grace off of Drogon and into the water."
Jon's eyes widened. "WHAT?!" he thundered, heart beating out of his chest. "Where is she?! Is she… dead?" He would burn the entire Iron Fleet upon the water if his Dany had died.
Eyes shifting to Tyrion, Missandei gestured to Jon. "Give it to him."
Nodding, Tyrion reached into his doublet and produced a folded scroll, presented to Jon - who snatched it from the Hand with impatience. As soon as he finished the first sentence, his already pale skin turned as white as Ghost's face.
To the followers of the usurper,
The dragon whore is in the deepest, darkest room of the black cells. Surrender and bend the knee now, or I will return her to you one piece at a time.
Cersei of House Lannister, First of Her Name. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Snarling, Jon crumpled the paper in his fists, fingers digging so hard that they were close to drawing his own blood. "Is..." Jon fought not to either slam his hand on the black stone or break down into tears in front of Dany's small council. He cleared his throat. "Is there any plan to rescue the Queen?"
"I'm afraid that could be impossible." Tyrion did not want to give up on the Queen he pledged to, or the former King in the North whom he greatly respected - and began to greatly fear. "Euron's ships control Blackwater Bay, and I doubt the Golden Company is asleep at the switch."
"So that means you have no means to save our Queen." Missandei's voice was cold, biting.
"Whatever plans I could think of are negated by the realities on the ground, Lady Missandei." Flagon in his hand, he brought it up to his lips.
Something in Jon snapped. It wasn't often that he lost his cool, the wolf inside him a grounding force of icy steel. Securing him in the wasteland of the True North. Securing him a level head during the battles of Castle Black and Winterfell. Giving him the strength to take on the Night King when all others had failed before him - taking the opportunity that Arya's strike gave him. But deep within, the fire waited. Stoked with each slight, each insult, each smug comment. Ready to burst out.
The flame rose when killing Slynt.
The flame rose when beating Ramsay.
The flame rose when defending Drogon on the ice.
And it rose once more when Rhaegal arrived only a few days before.
And it rose that moment, seeing Tyrion find solace in the bottle. After countless mistakes that had nearly left Daenerys reeling, that had left her captured and in the custody of the most evil, vicious person in the Seven Kingdoms, he stood there nonchalantly getting drunk and stating no plans existed. Eyes ablaze, he smacked the flagon out of Tyrion's hands.
Tyrion nearly choked on the wine as the glass crashed on the floor. "What…" He found himself face to face with the fiery image of what Rhaegar Targaryen would have been had he been dark instead of fair. Inside, he trembled.
"You are no longer Hand, Lord Tyrion. Give me the pin." Four sets of wide eyes blinked at him, but he was in no mood. "As the only man who knows what in the seven hells he's doing here, I'm taking command in her Grace's absence."
"Lord Snow…" Not Snow, Targaryen. "You have no authority over us…" Tyrion sputtered.
"I don't care. Ser Davos Seaworth will be the Hand until Daenerys is free." His eyes narrowed. "Are you refusing my order?" I will not hesitate to do to you what I did to Janos Slynt. "Don't make me ask twice, Lord Tyrion." With a sigh, not wishing to argue, Tyrion unclipped the pin from his lapel and dropped it in Jon's waiting hand. With it, a huge weight felt as if it lifted off his chest. "Good night, my Lord. I shall be in my rooms if you wish for my continued advice."
"If you are too drunk to stand if I seek out your continued advice, your new chambers will be at the bottom of Blackwater Bay," Jon hissed back. Closing his fingers around it as he watched Tyrion stagger off, Jon turned to Grey Worm. "Get the Unsullied off Dragonstone and to the other army. I will stay with the Queen's bloodriders and a small guard to protect the dragons as they heal, but it's too isolated to hold any large amount of soldiers."
Grey Worm looked angry, while Missandei remained emotionless beside him. "I listen to Queen Daenerys, not you. What give you right to take control…"
"I think that having Lord Snow taking control in the absence of her Grace is an excellent idea." Varys' words were a shock to all present… aside from Jon, who glazed his expression in a cold ice. "We do not need to bicker. Only those that would harm the Realm benefit from those in this room fighting like children in a nursery." Wan eyes set beneath flabby cheeks nevertheless stared down Grey Worm, who grunted but nodded - quickly turning tail and leaving the Painted Table.
Intending to follow her paramour, Missandei looked once more to Jon. "You earned the trust of the Queen, and her love. Then suddenly seemed to break it." She stepped closer to him, the usually shy and quiet translator brimming with an icy steel that would put a King of Winter to shame. "I trust you for now, so I pray that you know what you are doing, Jon Snow." At that, she followed Grey Worm to their shared chambers.
Leaving Jon alone with the Master of Whisperers. "So it is just us remaining, Lord Snow." Jon could have sworn that the eunuch's eyes sparkled. "Shall you be needing anything else of me?"
Wracking his mind for answers, the events of the last few days suddenly leaving him with a great fatigue, he grasped out to sit upon one of the cold stone chairs ringing the great map table of Aegon the Conqueror. My ancestor. "Just send the ravens to Ser Davos to come to Dragonstone at once. Lord Yohn Royce will be in command of the army until Grey Worm arrives, then they are to share co-command." Someone loyal to Dany and someone loyal to him… or Sansa… "And send another one to Tormund. Have him watch over the other Lords and make sure they don't do anything foolish or disloyal."
"Do you wish for me to marshal my flock in the capitol? Gleam whatever information they can about the comings and goings?"
Jon looked up to him. "I am shocked that you haven't done so already." Was he forgetful or did he have another agenda? "Do it."
"Of course, my Lord." On the way out, Varys leaned in to Jon's ear - confirming it was indeed the latter. "Long may you reign, King Aegon." And he was out before the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms could reply - though what reply could be made was lost to him.
"Ropes are strong, sire. Half a foot thick. Not even the greatest Kraken could snap it."
Euron eyed his artilleryman warily. "It's not Kraken you need to worry about."
Certain that every detail of the attack would get to Cersei eventually - cutting tongues did wonders for keeping men in line, but those still with tongues could loosen them for the right motivations - Euron had raged with the fury of an Essosi typhoon as the Dragons winged off into the distance. Such rage was mollified when Daenerys Targaryen herself was fished out of the water, an enterprising young lad from Pyke spotting the silver-haired goddess bobbing atop the waves, earning him officer rank for his keen eyes.
But the dragons were the big prize. The prize Euron craved with every fiber of his being. The only fitting prize for the King of the Iron Islands, one who would pull the shit-stained rocks out of the purgatory of raping and raiding into the pantheon of greatness.
"My King, the Hand of the Queen is in your chambers as requested."
He smiled at the captain of the Silence, one of his most loyal followers that had been with him since brother Balon exiled him after the first Greyjoy Rebellion. "See to it that this is done, Karak, or I'll have you killed." Every word was meant, though Euron doubted that Karak would fail - he never had. Pushing his way into his cabin, the King of the Iron Islands found Qyburn leaning against the wooden walls, hand clutching his stomach. "Lord Hand, I trust your journey on the skiff was tolerable." Oh, this is too fucking perfect.
The disgraced maester and former Master of Whisperers looked absolutely miserable. "Let us… just say that I'm…" He looked like he just swallowed his own vomit. "I haven't gotten my sea legs yet."
"No, I suppose not." Euron's amusement hardened into a scowl. "Do you have the information I need? The Queen tasked me with finishing off the threat to her, and I intend to keep it."
Composing himself as best he could - not well - Qyburn nodded. "Aye. Both dragons are alive, according to my little birds, but being without their mother has had adverse consequences. The beast that the northern bastard is alleged to have ridden, the green one, they say he disappeared out to sea. No sign of him since the day following your ambush."
"And what do your 'little birds' have to say about the other one. The black fucker?" Euron had fallen in love with that great beast from the moment he set eyes on it at the dragonpit. Plans and plots already whizzing through his mind barely a second after the Dragon Queen had dismounted it. "I was positive that my men had put at least three bolts into the beast." As I told them to. No heads, no necks, no hearts. Not that the fools could aim worth a damn.
He had still cut the tongues off them anyway for failing to achieve the Queens orders. No reason not to.
Qyburn swayed with the bobbing flagship, trying hard to keep the pork stew eaten earlier in the day from lubricating the deck. Ignoring the smirk marring Euron's face. "Aye, there have been whispers. Tales of Balerion the Dread reborn upon this earth, nestled atop the cliffs. Nursing wounds and making no movements whatsoever. As if he misses his mother."
Nodding, Euron began to ponder the information given. On the cliffs… tricky. Complicates matters. In all else, the news was exactly what he wanted to hear. Fuckin' perfect. He couldn't have asked the Drowned God for greater providence. A grin spread across his face… but not his gregarious trademark. No, this was far more sinister…
A grin not seen in King's Landing since Cersei herself watched the Sept of Baelor immolate in front of her.
Looking up, he could see Qyburn still standing there. "Did I say you could sleep in my quarters?" Euron waved his hand dismissively. "Get the fuck out. Tell the Queen I'll bring her a dead dragon by month's end."
"I shall…" A clump of food and bile made its way to his mouth, Qyburn's throat burning as he swallowed it back down. The seas were not kind to him. "I shall see to it that her Grace receives the news promptly, Lord Greyjoy." A reaver - one with his tongue still connected to his mouth - escorted the Hand to the Queen out of the cabin.
Standing, Euron threw the tarp draped over an imposing device, seated in the middle of the cabin. A black surface gleamed in the sparing sunlight streaming through the windowshades, Red gold and Valyrian steel banded the surface, shiny and reflecting Euron's visage back to him. A reflection twisting into a grotesque form.
My true form, beneath my handsome face. Few knew the real Euron Greyjoy, hidden beneath the exterior he put on for the fools and cattle. They soon will.
He placed his hand upon the great device, feeling the warmth enter his hand along the smooth surface. The bands were covered by strange writings, Valyrian glyphs etched. Euron ran his hands along the mental, gazing upon the runes. Blood for fire, fire for blood. A soothing warmth coursed through him, though he pulled away before his hand could be burned. By ancient magic unknown even to someone as worldly as him.
Euron knew what he had to do. What would be needed of him soon, to achieve his birthright. Balon's cunning gutted our islands twice, gutted them of our best men and finest ships. Victerion's stupidity and savagery nearly lost us our entire fleet at Lannisport, and did lose us our fleet to Fat Robert mere months later. Lesser men, his brothers.
All were lesser men, raping and raiding like mere cutthroats. Fools of House Greyjoy, not fit to live in the world soon to be built by his hands. It would be he, Euron the Silencer - further names and titles flashing through his mind as fast as a fall gale upon Pyke - that would win the game of thrones. Washing away the lions, direwolves, and dragons beneath his tempest. Creating a new world in his image.
Oh, did the coming victory taste sweet indeed.
It was hard to imagine Cersei Lannister as having mercy, but Daenerys found that the Lannister Queen she so despised did possess some of that trait more common in herself or Jon. Her clothes, while not good quality and utterly drab, were at least clean homespun wool that a Fleabottom maiden would have been proud to own. A bucket had been provided for her daily voiding, and was emptied out by sullen-faced guards every evening. Meals were… slightly more filling than the average slop provided for the other prisoners.
Of this Dany would have been inclined to be grudgingly thankful for, if not for two factors. First, there was no doubt in her mind that Cersei had not an altruistic bone in her body, instead keeping her alive for hostage purposes.
Second, the hard bread and turnip soup had been the third meal in the last two days she had expelled into the waste bucket. Dry heaves still shuddered through her system, cursing the gods she rarely even thought about for such a slight on her honor. As if my imprisonment wasn't enough for them.
Setting the bucket down to the dirty stone below, she slowly, gingerly sat upon the stone casement - threadbare goose down padding serving as her mattress and blanket when folded over upon itself. Her back cracked, only adding to the discomfort from the nausea. Most prisoners wouldn't even have such a luxury, she realized, not wishing to complain. Only berating herself once more for her foolishness at Dragonstone.
Dany nearly jumped as the latch opened. In walked Qyburn, the false maester, a small smile curled on his wrinkled face. "Greetings, your Grace," he said differently, bowing shallowly.
She glared at him with dragonfire in her violet eyes. "Trying to twist the knife, you sadistic cunt?"
Qyburn's smile didn't leave him - if Dany didn't know better, he seemed to have a flash of apology upon his expression. "Pain for the sake of pain is an abomination, your Grace. I have been sent by her Grace, Cersei, to ensure that you are healthy enough for her purposes." An eye gleamed the vomit-filled bucket below her. "And I see I have my work cut out for me." Taking a seat upon a small stool, Qyburn sighed when she flinched. "Please, your Grace. I don't bite. My… experimentations notwithstanding, I follow the teachings of the Citadel to do no harm."
Still glaring, Daenerys nevertheless let Qyburn conduct the examination.
"Forgive me, for it was not my idea to choose these accommodations." He glided over her ribs, other hand drifting to check her pulse. "You are still a highborn of the most august blood, and deserving of more respect."
"Why am I hesitant to believe you?" Dany asked, though it was more a statement than a question.
"You are a very valuable hostage, your Grace. My Queen would be a fool to harm a single hair on your head. Not while there are two dragons still out there, angry enough to do something disastrous." A ghost of a grin crossed his face. "Or three dragons, rather."
Dany's eyes widened. 'How, how does he know?' Anger coursed through her, for if Cersei knew another of Rhaegar's children lived, she would do whatever it took to kill him. To kill Jon.
"But I can't lose you, Jon."
The tempest of rage and sorry stilled, paused as an odd look plastered itself on Qyburn's face. "What the seven hells…" he murmured, hands suddenly poking and prodding her stomach… her abdomen. Fingers tracing unknown patterns atop her skin. Unable to help herself, Daenerys squirmed underneath his touch. Uncomfortable, and slightly fearful. The disgraced Maester may have been the Hand to the Lannister Queen, but he was nothing if not competent. "Tell me, your Grace, when was your last moonblood?"
"It was right before I left…" No… Daenerys remembered. "It was here, right before the meeting at the dragonpit..."
His eyes sparkled. "By the Old Gods and the New…" Wonder tinted his voice.
"What?" Dany suddenly blurted out. "If I am dying, just have me killed already." Better a sudden death than a torturous one - or one where Cersei used her passing to torture Jon.
Qyburn chuckled, shaking his head. "It seems as if my Queen has two hostages now." The blink of confusion from the young Mother of Dragons was both amusing and adorable in his aging eyes. "You are with child, your Grace. A little over two moonturns by my observation."
The words slammed into her as if a punch from the Night King himself. "I… but…" Disbelief tinged her voice. "But I cannot have children…" Many times with Daario. Many times with Jon on the boat to White Harbor. Nothing had happened. Not one seed had taken root in her womb.
But it had.
"Stranger things have happened, your Grace." Qyburn seemed, oddly pleased with the turn of events. Had the news not shocked Dany both to a chalky white pallor and to near tears, she'd have noticed and felt uneasy. Immediately noticed the political fissure before her. "In this age of renewed magic, stranger things have truly happened."
She still could not believe it. The witch… her curse had ruled Dany's life for years. Had nearly caused her to spurn her lover. To spurn Jon, but alas, their love and attraction had been too deep - at least at first.
Standing, Qyburn quickly pulled Dany's dress down to regain her modesty. "I shall be making changes to your daily meals. So that you will have a proper diet for your growing babe."
The naked kindness shocked Dany out of her thoughts, the Dragon Queen returning. If just for a little while. "Why are you being kind to me?" Her eyes narrowed. "What is in it for you? Another power ploy with Cersei? Barter my life and… my child… to secure defeat for my armies?"
Qyburn only chuckled, one not malevolent or creepy, but instead sounding a mere kind old man. As if the pain and death his actions had caused were forgotten. Slowly, he bent down to lean into her ear. His hot, wet breath ought to have disgusted Daenerys, but what he said blocked all else from her mind. "Not all in King's Landing toast Cersei's health. Not even her Hand." Qyburn's bony hand moved to caress her cheek… Daenerys too shocked to pull away, or even flinch. "The last dragons have more allies than they think."
She stared at him, mind a swirl of emotions at two massive revelations sent her way. She would have plenty of time to ponder them as the man stood to leave. One without any further information but Qyburn's cryptic statements… and the other with all the information Daenerys needed.
Before he reached the door, Qyburn turned and bowed. Pin of the Hand jostling on his maester's robes. "I shall bid you goodbye, your Grace. Unfortunately, you are not the only person here I must attend to." Rapping on the door, Qyburn briskly walked out once the guard outside opened it.
Hearing the door beyond latch shut, the wails of other prisoners heralding the Hand to Cersei Lannister - traitor Hand, if he was to be believed - turning his attention to more fruitful interrogations, Dany found her composure faltering. "He can't possibly…" she said softly, to no one in particular. To herself, thoughts finding themselves out loud. "I can't have children…" Gently, almost hesitant, her hand drifted to cup her abdomen…
Daenerys gasped, her surprise followed soon after by tears. There was nothing, nothing that the average person would have picked up on, but Dany felt it. A sense, the bond of one dragon to the other - just as she felt the warmth within her dragon eggs long thought to have turned to stone, so too she felt the life growing within her.
Her child.
Jon's child.
Their child. A child of ice and fire.
The Dragon Queen cried, cheeks stained with tears and snot bubbling out of her nostrils, uncaring as to who might see. All layers stripped away, in her solitude no longer the mighty Targaryen that broke the chains in Slaver's Bay. The strong Queen that sailed across the Narrow Sea. The brave dragonrider that fought the Army of the Dead and triumphed.
No, now she was Dany. The scared girl on the coast of Pentos simply wishing for home. The terrified widow and would-be mother in the Red Waste, wishing to beg the gods above simply for her Rhaego back.
Rhaego was never coming back, but she was not barren. A child grew within her.
"When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child…"
For so long, those words had haunted her. Taunted the great Mother of Dragons with an everlasting pain… only to be proven false as flippantly as Jon Snow had stated when they sailed to White Harbor. Jon…
"My love…" The tears overwhelmed her. "I wish you were here to see this. I need you... we need you." Only silence responded.
Curling into a ball, Dany clutched her abdomen - still flat, not even the smallest swell. She loved it all the same. Loved him or her. Bittersweet, but hers. "Lyka sir, ñuha rūs. Sagon iēdrosa jorrāelagon, ȳdra daor limagon."
The gentle words of the Valyrian lullaby left her lips, her voice catching as she sang through the tears.
"Ēdrugon hae ao sagon inditan ondoso se qelbar."
A memory, one of a silver-haired woman singing the same tune to her… her mother. The only memory Daenerys had of her. It was only fitting for her to sing the same to her unborn child.
"Ēdrugon se gūrēñagon, ñuha mōrī vāedar."
The words grew faint, the sobs calming. Tears only now trickling down her cheeks.
"Sīr nyke sagon lēda ao skori ao pendagon."
As the chained Mother of Dragons fell asleep, an image flashed through her mind. An image of raven hair, of a kind smile. Of grey eyes… the eyes of her beloved. Jon, please. Come back to me.
"I love you…"