297-298 AC
The grand halls of Meereen echoed with the sounds of power—the clatter of armored boots, the whispers of courtiers, and the distant, ever-present roars of dragons. Yet for Daenerys Targaryen, the stone walls felt more like a gilded cage than a throne room. She had been thrust into the role of queen, a wife to a dragonlord, and though she bore the title with grace, the weight of it pressed heavily on her slender shoulders.
Daenerys stood at the edge of the balcony overlooking the city, her violet eyes tracing the winding streets below. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and crimson, reflecting the fire that now ruled Slaver's Bay. The people bowed when they saw her, their voices whispering her name with reverence and fear. Yet, she felt disconnected from them, like a stranger wearing a crown that didn't quite fit.
Behind her, the sound of soft footsteps approached. Missandei, now the head maid of House Targaryen, moved with quiet grace, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She had become more than just a servant—she was Daenerys's confidante, a bridge between her and Aemon, and a guide in navigating the complexities of court life.
"The council awaits, my queen," Missandei said gently, her voice like a balm against Daenerys's anxiety.
Daenerys turned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm not sure I'll ever grow used to that title."
Missandei's eyes sparkled with warmth. "You will. In time."
Daenerys nodded, though her heart still fluttered with uncertainty. The halls of Meereen were grand and imposing, their walls adorned with tapestries depicting Valyrian conquests and the rise of House Targaryen. But no matter how many symbols of power surrounded her, Daenerys couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't belong.
The Burden of the Crown
In the council chambers, Daenerys sat beside Aemon, her posture straight, her face composed. The courtiers and advisers bowed deeply, their eyes flickering between the dragonlord and his queen. Aemon's presence was commanding, his voice steady and confident as he discussed matters of governance and strategy. Daenerys listened intently, but the words often felt like a foreign language—taxes, trade routes, military deployments—all things she had never been taught to manage.
After the meeting, as the room emptied, Daenerys remained seated, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings on the armrest of her chair. Aemon placed a gentle hand on hers, his dark eyes searching her face.
"You're doing well," he said softly.
Daenerys looked down, her cheeks flushing. "I feel like I'm drowning in things I don't understand."
Aemon's thumb brushed over her knuckles, his touch grounding her. "You'll learn. You have the blood of the dragon. And you're not alone."
His words were meant to comfort, but they also reminded Daenerys of the expectations placed upon her. She was a Targaryen, a queen, and she had to rise to meet her destiny.
Bonding with Silverwing
When the formalities of court became too much, Daenerys sought solace in the dragon's roosts. The great beasts were a constant reminder of her heritage, their scales glinting like precious gems under the sun. But it was Silverwing who captured her heart.
The white-scaled dragon, with eyes like molten silver, had been distant at first, observing Daenerys with wary curiosity. But over time, a bond began to form. Daenerys would sit quietly in the roost, speaking softly to Silverwing, her voice carrying tales of her childhood, her fears, and her dreams.
One day, as she approached with a mixture of trepidation and hope, Silverwing lowered her massive head, allowing Daenerys to rest her hand against the cool, smooth scales. A shiver ran through her at the contact, a surge of warmth blooming in her chest. The connection was undeniable—a link forged not just by blood, but by trust.
With Missandei and Aemon watching from a distance, Daenerys climbed onto Silverwing's back for the first time. The dragon's muscles rippled beneath her as they took to the sky, the wind whipping through her hair, the world falling away beneath them.
Up in the sky, Daenerys felt free. The weight of her crown, the expectations, the formalities—they all faded as she soared above the city. Silverwing's wings beat in time with her heart, and for the first time, Daenerys felt like she belonged.
Stepping Into Her Role
The days turned into weeks, and slowly, Daenerys began to find her footing. With Missandei's guidance, she learned the intricacies of court life, mastering the delicate dance of diplomacy and power. She attended councils with growing confidence, her voice steady as she offered her insights. The courtiers who once saw her as a mere ornament began to recognize her as a true queen.
Aemon watched her with pride, his heart swelling as he saw the transformation in his wife. She was no longer the shy, uncertain girl he had rescued. She was a queen—his queen—and together, they would reshape the world.
One evening, as they stood on the balcony overlooking Meereen, Aemon wrapped his arms around Daenerys, his lips brushing against her temple.
"You've grown stronger than you realize," he murmured.
Daenerys leaned into his embrace, her eyes reflecting the flickering lights of the city below. "I had to," she whispered. "For us."
Aemon turned her to face him, his gaze intense. "For us. And for the world we're going to build."
Daenerys nodded, her heart steady and strong. She was ready. Together, they were unstoppable.