Daenerys's new home was dark and damp, with nothing but a low ventilation hole just under the ceiling. There were no decorations, no wine to drink, no books to read—not that it mattered, she couldn't see a thing.
There was no toilet with a marble seat, no herbs to mask odors. There wasn't even a chamber pot. The entire space reeked of filth and excrement.
No one spoke to her. Only food and water were lowered through the ventilation shaft. The hand holding the rope belonged to Missandei—she could tell. She tried to speak to her handmaid, but the girl ignored her.
"I gave her freedom, only to push her into the abyss. She must hate me for it… That girl was good. It's just that she chose the wrong person to follow."
Daenerys's kindness began to stir again, faint and feeble.
But she was wrong. Missandei desperately wanted to rebuild their bond—but she couldn't.
The king had ordered her to deliver food, and nothing more. She had just witnessed a massacre, and had no choice but to obey.
Sometimes she wondered if the king no longer loved his queen. After all, rulers always grew tired of old things.
But she quickly rejected that thought. "They've weathered too much together. Their bond is deep. And she's the Mother of Dragons—he can't do without her on the battlefield."
Days passed. Dany grew more and more disgusted by her own stench. She grew more irritable, often tangling her silky silver hair into a wild bird's nest—her scalp itched terribly.
As for appearances, they no longer mattered. When the sea outside was rough, sometimes food meant for the dogs would slide to her lips.
Her mind on the verge of collapse, Daenerys would often beat at the door and cry out, "Drogo! Am I still your moon? Is it a crime to be born beautiful?!"
The heavy shackles clanged with her every move, but she could never rage for long.
Drogo came to stand outside her door every day for a time, but each time he left disappointed.
Because yes—being captivating was a curse. And she still hadn't realized her true mistake. Or maybe she had, but she simply refused to admit it.
The dragons' power was overwhelming. Though Drogo seemed heartless to others, he remained soft when it came to his wife. After all, there could only be one Dragon King.
Daenerys was small. There was no stool to let her see the sea's sunrise. She could only curl up and listen in darkness—to the ocean's rhythm, and to the cries of her three children.
There was no feather bed. Her bedding was coarse linen crawling with lice. As a child of the dragon, her body radiated heat—and the lice only wanted to stay on her.
A week passed.
She stopped screaming.
She became quiet, like a nun attempting to let go of everything. Perhaps it was only temporary. Perhaps it would last a lifetime. She didn't know.
There was nothing to do but sleep.
Time blurred until she no longer knew how long she'd been imprisoned. She could no longer tell if the light from the vent was sunlight or moonlight.
She spent more and more time lying on the linens. In the end, she didn't even want to get up to relieve herself.
The food Missandei lowered grew cold and untouched. Daenerys would sleep and wake, then sleep again—too tired to move.
She prayed to the gods for mercy, and to the dragonlords of old for courage. Then she slept some more.
When fresh food came, she still refused to eat. One time, she gathered all her strength to toss it through the vent onto the wooden deck above, so it couldn't tempt her anymore.
The act drained her. She crawled back to bed and slept half a day—maybe more.
That night, she dreamed again. The same dragon dream.
This time, like before, it was just her and the dragon.
She had once thought the dream-dragon was Drogon. But now she saw clearly—it wasn't.
The dragon in this dream had scales even blacker than Drogon's. Blood glistened between the scales—alive, moving.
Its eyes were twin pools of molten lava, tinged red. But this time, in one of those eyes—there was someone.
The light was too bright, and her vision blurred. But she kept trying to see.
Finally, she saw it clearly: it was her. She lay within that molten pool, being baptized—not by magma, but by boiling blood!
As time passed, the blood in the pool diminished, while her pale skin began to glow, fire-colored. She was absorbing the searing blood.
Suddenly, the dragon spoke. Its voice was ghostly, ancient.
"Bride of Flame, Daughter of Death."
BOOM!
A blast of flame erupted from the dragon's mouth, engulfing her completely—purifying her, tempering her.
She felt her blood boil, but no pain. On the contrary—it was as warm as a mother's womb. She felt reborn.
When she awoke, she realized it had all been a dream—but it had felt real.
Strangely, the hunger and weakness of so many days vanished. Her small body brimmed with energy!
Hiss… Crackle!
"Drogon! Rhaegal! Viserion! Danger! Come back!"
Suddenly, the roar of dragons and her husband's anxious shouts echoed from outside.
"Danger? What's happening to my children?!"
No mother could remain calm when her children were in peril. Daenerys panicked. She screamed:
"Let me out! My children need me!"
But no matter how hoarse her voice became, no one answered.
"Wuuu…"
She slid down the wooden wall and sobbed bitterly.
She was the Mother of Dragons. There was no one in the world who didn't fear her—yet here she was, utterly helpless, unable to escape even this tiny prison!
She wanted her children safe—but she wasn't even allowed to know what had happened to them.
And it was all because of Drogo.
Grrr…
Her teeth ground together with fury.
Her hatred deepened.
She swore silently: if ever this fury broke loose, she would become more ruthless than Drogo himself.
Caw! Caw! Caw!
Suddenly, an ancient dragon's roar pierced through the tiny vent—shocking Daenerys to her core.
Because this wasn't from one of her children.
The power and reach of this aged roar far surpassed her three still-young dragons. It rippled through the entire fleet, stirring the heart of every soul aboard.
Drogo, who had been shouting from the ship's upper deck, stopped abruptly. He had heard it too.
But only he and Daenerys could tell the difference.
The three dragons seemed to feel a strange affection toward the Ruins of Doom—an affinity stronger than what they felt even for their father. Otherwise, they would've returned when Drogo had called them.
Drogo could tell clearly: the roar came from the most violent volcano among the ruins—and his dragons were circling that very peak.
"Could it be… that there's another dragon in this world?"
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
📢 Fire and Blood! 📢
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