The wind whipped at my cloak, sending a shiver down my spine despite the armor I wore. I surveyed Targoviste with a critical eye. Seriously? This was it? A town, barely bigger than some of the villages we'd passed on the way here. I'd seen more impressive settlements back in Essos. Qarth, Astapor, Yunkai – those were cities. Cities which certainly couldn't exist in a nomral medieval world, but this still a bit of letdown. This was a dump, a hole. This… this was a joke.
Still, a city was a city, and taking it would give us a foothold in Wallachia. Targoviste was after all one of the capitals of the principality along with Arges on Curtea. Though, we would have to face the enemies sooner if we went through this, but I was still confident in my army. While historically, the Wallachians did defeat the 40,000 strong army of the Ottomans, it was the cunning of Mircea the elder that had won the war, alongwith a fair amount of luck that caused the Ottoman Interregnum which delayed any Ottoman response for a long time, but unlike the Ottomans, I was not going to give the Wallachians a chance to turn around the situation. I was going to blitz through their land till I held them by the neck. This was going to be swift and decisive.
I shifted on my makeshift throne, a sturdy chair Daario had scavenged from who knows where, perched atop a small mound to give me a better view of the battlefield. Not that there was much of a battlefield to speak of. Just a flat, dusty plain stretching out towards the unimpressive walls of Targoviste.
Around me, my army stood ready. Eight thousand Unsullied, their spears glinting in the sun, formed a disciplined line. Behind them, Daario and his Second Sons, a colorful and chaotic bunch compared to the Unsullied, were also prepared to launch a flank should any enemy marc out to face us in the open field, a low chance but still no risk was allowed. My dragons, Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, were still too young to be of much use in battle, but they circled overhead, adding an extra layer of intimidation. At least they could act as a threat should it come.
"Ser Barristan," I said, turning to the old knight at my side, "what do you make of our chances?"
Barristan the Bold, ever the stoic warrior, squinted at the distant town, perhaps comparing it to the likes of King's Landing or Duskendale. "The city's defenses are weak, Your Grace. A siege wouldn't last long."
"We don't have time for a siege," I muttered, more to myself than to him. We needed to move quickly, establish ourselves, after all, my history was pretty good and I knew of the threat that coming from the south.
As if summoned by my thoughts, the city gates creaked open, and a small group of horsemen emerged, a white flag fluttering in the breeze. I raised a hand, and Jorah, ever attentive, spurred his horse forward to meet them.
A few minutes later, Jorah returned, escorting an old man dressed in flowing robes. The old man was dressed in priestly robes like those shown in the historical movies. The moment my eyes met his, he looked like he'd just seen a ghost, his eyes widened with shock. I smirked inwardly. Happens all the time. Guess even in this world, I still turn heads.
"Your Grace," Jorah announced, "this is Patriarch Andrew, he is the leader of the Christians, the city's… well, I suppose he's their religious leader."
"Your Grace," the Orthodox Patriarch stammered, bowing deeply. He looked up, and his eyes widened further as he looked at me closely, taking in my silver hair, my violet eyes, and the intricate armor I wore. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head.
"You wish to speak with me?" I asked, keeping my voice cool and regal. It was good for situations like this.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said, finally finding his voice. "I beg you, spare our city! We desire no conflict."
"Spare your city?" I scoffed. "Surrender it, then. Open your gates and lay down your arms."
"But… but the city belongs to the Voivode," he sputtered, "the Grand Duke of Wallachia! Mircea of House Basarab! He will return, and he will not tolerate this aggression!"
The old priest was getting on my nerves. I was irritated and not in mood to deal with any nonsense. Did he really think he could lecture me, Daenerys Targaryen, about defiance? I mean, come on! I'd faced down bloodthirsty warlords, slavers, and all kinds of crazy creatures back in Essos. This guy and his tiny town were small potatoes.
"You dare speak of defiance, old man?" I said, my voice laced with steel. "You think your walls, those pitiful excuses for fortifications, can withstand my wrath? I have faced greater foes, razed mightier cities. I will turn this Targoviste to ash and bone if you force my hand."
I paused, letting my words sink in. The Patriarch's face paled, but a stubborn glint remained in his eyes. Time for the real persuasion.
"Drogon!" I shouted, sending the command to my biggest, baddest dragon.
The ground shook as Drogon swooped down from the sky, landing right next to me with a roar that probably made half the town wet their pants, although not large enough to be ridden, he was still larger than a horse. Rhaegal and Viserion joined in, flying low and casting scary shadows over everyone. I could practically see the priest's knees knocking together.
I ran a gloved hand down Drogon's leathery snout, feeling the heat radiating from his scales. "This," I said, my voice dangerously low, "is but a taste of what awaits you. Defy me, and you will face fire and blood such as this world has never seen."
The Patriarch's composure finally crumbled. He sank to his knees, tears streaming down his wrinkled face. "Please, Your Grace," he sobbed, "have mercy! We surrender! The city is yours!"
I couldn't help but grin. Sometimes, a little bit of fear goes a long way. These people needed to know who was in charge. I wasn't some dainty queen from this time period. I was Daenerys Targaryen, and I knew how to get things done.
"That's better," I said, my voice a bit softer now. "Get up, Patriarch. Let's talk about how this surrender thing is gonna work."
As the priest got to his feet, I had to laugh to myself. Even in this weird new world, some things never changed. Power was power, and dragons were the ultimate trump card.
With Targoviste in my pocket, I started thinking about what to do next.
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The grand hall of Târgoviște's palace was filled with silence, the kind that carried weight and meaning, the kind that gives you irkey feelings, where you know that you need to keep your mouth shut. Several Wallachian boyars knelt before me, their ornate robes brushing the cold stone floor, each one of them dressed handsomely. Their heads were bowed, but I could still feel their eyes darting to each other, gauging reactions, searching for signs of betrayal or hesitation. These men were not loyal subjects—they were survivors, opportunists, wolves in fine cloth. But these were the wolves that I needed at the moment to establish myself.
At the head of the group was a man with sharp features and a thin scar that cut across his cheek like an old story he was tired of telling. His shoulders were squared, and though he knelt, there was no submission in his posture. That needed to change,the man was too proud, and I didn't like it one bit.
"Your Excellency," he began, his voice steady and clear, "I am Bogdan Atekri, lord of Sangov. I come to pledge myself to you and bring my men to your cause. Eight hundred strong, armed and ready to fight in your name, should you give us a chance to join under your banner."
I studied him carefully, noting the flicker of pride in his eyes as he spoke of his forces. It wasn't simply opportunism. No, Bogdan had something else driving him, and I intended to find out what.
"You bring your men to me," I said, my voice calm but firm. "Why? Loyalty is not born overnight, and I am not so naive to believe you suddenly see me as your queen."
There was a murmur among the other boyars, but Bogdan didn't flinch. He lifted his head slightly, just enough to meet my gaze. His eyes were dark, filled with a simmering anger that he barely contained.
"You're right, Your Excellency," he said. "I do not kneel to you out of loyalty. I kneel for vengeance. Mircea, our so-called Voivode, insulted my family. He dishonored my sister, treating her as if she were less than nothing. When I demanded justice, he laughed in my face and dismissed me like a dog."
The hall grew even quieter, the weight of his words pressing down like a storm cloud. Now, this was not something I would have thought about.
"So now I am here," Bogdan continued, his voice hardening. "To see him humbled. To see him fall. If it is by your hand, then so be it. I will fight for you, march with you, and give my life for your cause if it means his ruin."
I let his words hang in the air for a moment, studying his face for any hint of deception. There was none. The man's anger was raw and real, a fire that burned brightly and dangerously.
"And the others?" I asked, my gaze sweeping across the room to the rest of the kneeling boyars. "Do you come with vengeance in your hearts as well, or is there another reason you stand before me?"
An older man with a graying beard and tired eyes raised his head. "Your Grace, I am Ionut Caranfil. My lands lie near the border, and I have seen too many winters under Mircea's and his father's rule. Unlike his half-brother, he is arrogant. He taxes us until there's nothing left, then demands more. My people suffer while his court feasts."
A younger noble, barely more than a boy, spoke next, his voice trembling but determined. "I am Petru Amarighi, Your Grace. My father sided with Mircea when he wanted the throne, bu then he kicked away my father and had him assassinated. He cares only for his power, not for us. If you march on Argeș, I will march with you."
One by one, they spoke, each giving their reasons. Some were born of anger, others of self-preservation, and a few even sounded like genuine belief in the change I promised. I listened to each one, filing their words away, measuring the sincerity in their tones and the steel in their eyes. Half of them were liars, and opportunists, and the rest were idiots or malicious fools who wanted to jump at the first chance that they had got now with me. These fools were like the first batch of rats from a sinking ship and I knew for a fact that they would betray me in a half beat if it came to that.
When they had all finished, I stood.
"You come to me with your grievances, your anger, and your hopes," I said, my voice steady and commanding. "You see in me the chance to destroy a ruler who has wronged you. You see in me strength, and you believe that by joining me, you can share in that strength."
I paused, letting the silence drive the point home.
"I will not promise you riches, nor lands, nor mercy. I am not Mircea, and I will not rule as he does. But I will promise you this: if you march with me, if you fight for me, I will tear down the old order that has kept you on your knees. Together, we will build something greater than any one of us. Something worthy of your loyalty."
The room was utterly still, the tension thick enough to touch. Then Bogdan bowed his head again, his voice ringing out like a bell in the quiet.
"You have my sword, Your Excellency. And my men."
One by one, the others followed, their voices rising in a chorus of pledges.
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The soft glow of the candlelight danced across the room, casting long shadows on the walls of my chamber. The air was warm, scented faintly with lavender from the oils Irri and Jhiqui had placed in the corners to soothe me. But nothing calmed my spirit more than the small, warm weight nestled against my chest.
Rhaegar cooed softly, his tiny hands grasping at the fabric of my dress as if he feared I might slip away. I looked down at him, his silver-blond hair catching the light like spun silk, his violet eyes—my eyes—blinking up at me with curiosity.
"My little dragon," I whispered, my voice trembling with love I could barely contain. I traced a finger along his delicate cheek, marveling at the softness of his skin. He giggled, a sound so pure it made my heart ache, and grabbed my finger in his tiny fist, holding on with surprising strength.
"You'll be strong, won't you?" I said, smiling down at him. "Strong just like your father. Just don't give me headaches."
His fingers tightened around mine, as if in answer.
I leaned back against the pillows, cradling him closer. His tiny breaths were warm against my skin, his heartbeat steady and soothing. I played with his little hands, marveling at the perfection of each tiny finger, the small nails that gleamed like pearls.
"You don't know it yet," I murmured, "but the world will expect great things from you. They'll see you as the son of Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons. They'll place their hopes on your shoulders before you even learn to walk. But to me..."
I paused, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"To me, you'll always be Rhaegar, my son, my Rhaego. My light in the dark."
He yawned then, a big, exaggerated gesture that made me laugh softly. His eyelids drooped, his tiny body growing heavier in my arms as sleep began to claim him.
I hummed a lullaby, an old Valyrian tune that according to my memory, Viserys had sung to Daenerys when she was little. It was one of the few memories of him that didn't sting. Rhaegar's breathing slowed, his little fist loosening its grip on my finger as he drifted off.
"I'll protect you, my little dragon," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "Whatever it takes, I'll keep you safe. I'll give you a world worthy of your light."
And as sleep began to pull at me too, I pressed one last kiss to his soft hair and closed my eyes, holding him close as if I could shield him from all the darkness in the world.
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The map of Wallachia spread out before me. I traced a finger along the serpentine line of the Argeș River. I was sitting in the local palace in Târgoviște, though called a place, it was nothing more than a large manor. This was the manor of House Basarab whenever they came to Targoviste and now it was mine.
"Your Grace." Barristan's voice brought me back. He stood across the table, his weathered face etched with concern, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Around him, my council waited—Jorah, Grey Worm, Daario, and the Wallachian nobles who had recently pledged themselves to me. Bogdan sat in the lead.
I straightened in my chair, meeting their expectant gazes.
"Mircea will not wait," Bogdan said, his eyes steely as he looked around the room. "Even now, he's calling his banners, rallying his loyal boyars to defend Argeș. If we give him time, he'll raise an army that could bleed us dry, because he might ask the King of Hungary or Poland for help."
One of the Wallachian nobles, a man with a grizzled beard and deep-set eyes, leaned forward. "Arges is based on a river bend, it is easily defensible position. If he fortifies Argeș, he'll make it a fortress you cannot breach."
"I know," I replied, my tone sharper than I intended. I glanced back at the map, my mind racing. This wasn't just about the here and now. I'd read about Mircea in the histories, back in the world I'd left behind. The first Wallachian prince to defy the Ottomans. A man of strategy and foresight, who understood the value of terrain and timing.
His descendant, Vlad—the one history would remember as the Impaler—must have learned from him.
I wasn't about to let him teach me the same lessons.
"We march within three days, our rations are ready and prepared," I said, the words cutting through the murmurs of the room. "I won't give him the chance to make Argeș a stronghold. We'll strike before his forces are ready, while his boyars are still rallying. I want to crush him before he can make any moves."
Jorah frowned, stepping forward. "Your Grace, moving so soon could stretch our supply lines. If Mircea retreats into the hills, and there are many of them, he could draw us into a prolonged campaign. This land favors the defender."
"And we are not defenders," I countered, meeting his gaze. "We have the advantage of speed, of discipline. We cannot allow him to dictate the terms of this war."
Barristan nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. "It is bold, Your Grace. Perhaps too bold. But if we succeed, it will shatter what resistance remains."
"Precisely," I said. My eyes swept over the table, lingering on the faces of the Wallachian lords. They were a wary lot, their loyalties fragile. They needed to see strength.
"We march for victory," I said, my voice rising. "If we take Argeș swiftly, the boyars will see the truth: resistance is futile."
Daario chuckled from his seat near the fire, his boots propped casually on a stool. "Well said, my queen. Let's put the fear of gods—or dragons—into them."
Turning back to the map, I placed my hand over Argeș, as if claiming it already. "Prepare the men," I ordered.
Grey Worm saluted, his expression unchanging. "It will be done, Your Grace."
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The year 1387 saw one of the most bizarre and unexpected turns in world history. News of the fall of Targoviste, not to a neighboring kingdom or a familiar foe like the Bulgarians, but to a foreign queen with a force of unparalleled ferocity, sent shockwaves through the realm. Mircea, Voivode of Wallachia, a ruler renowned for his strategic acumen and military prowess, found himself facing an enemy unlike any he had encountered before. This enigmatic conqueror, Daenerys Targaryen, seemingly materialized out of thin air, leading an army of disciplined warriors unlike any seen in Europe since the fall of the Rome of old.
Mircea, ever decisive, immediately called his banners. He summoned his boyars, the noble landowners who formed the backbone of Wallachian military might, to muster their forces and converge at Argeș, the heart of his domain. He planned to gather his strength and meet this "Stormborn" queen in a decisive battle. But Daenerys, displaying a boldness that bordered on recklessness, did not allow him the time he needed. Mere days after subduing Targoviste, her forces marched west, not giving the Wallachian army any time to prepare to meet the army of the Dragon Empress.
The two armies clashed on the plains of Ceruta, some twenty miles south of Arges on April 2nd, 1387. What followed was a massacre. The Wallachian forces were ill-prepared for the disciplined fury of the Unsullied and the terrifying aerial assault of the dragons of the Dragon Empress, who were still small at that time but were still terrifying to see in battle, and thus were utterly routed. Mircea, despite his legendary courage, was captured amidst the carnage. He was executed shortly after under the orders of the Dragon Empress. And thus ended the rule of Basarab, the first ruling line of Wallachia.
The remaining boyars, witnessing the annihilation of their army and the death of their Voivode, had little choice but to surrender. Daenerys Targaryen, the "Queen of Dragons," had conquered Wallachia with a speed and brutality that left the region reeling.