The pale spring sunlight illuminated the cold hall, the glowing shafts filled with dust and ashes. The room was empty, stone walls and paved floor both bare. Only the great carved dragon heads looked down from above, fearsome and dead.
Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Stormborn, Khaleesi, the Unbrunt, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Free Cities, and now Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Rhoynar, of the Andals and the First Men stepped into the throne room of the Red Keep. Here the Iron Throne was raised high on the dias, its wicked swords twisted around each other, the blades sharp and treacherous for those unweary. The dull metal shone like hope and fire and she climbed the steps.
Her host was behind her, the remainder of her khalasar and the Unsullied. Sellswords from the free cities and beyond. The mighty house of Martell's sun and spear, the Arryn falcon and moon, the Stark direwolf. Black brothers from the Wall, and the wild ones from beyond it. And her dragons, black and green and cream they were, serpentine beasts that swam through the air and were fire made flesh and bone.
She climbed to the seat of her father and his fathers, the seat of power her ancestors had forged from the very swords of their enemies. Here was the center of the Seven Kingdoms, the focal point from which all else radiated.
This is where my blood has led me, Dany thought, slowly taking the steps, this is where I was meant to be.
She held her head high, silver blonde hair roped into a simple braid underneath her triple headed crown. Here she would continue the Targaryen rule, the blood of the dragon giving her strength and purpose. There would be no more running, no hiding nor being led along. Here she would rebuild Westeros as she say fit.
She reached the last step, her slippered foot on the cool stone. The massive chair was not so big now, the sharp twisting points mere inconveniences. Turning she gazed over her subjects with violet eyes, and they knelt. First one then another, then all of them were on one knee, yeoman to Queensguard alike.
She sat down and a ragged cheer went up.
Her nameday feast was well under way. One and thirty, she thought wearily, thirteen years of peace and plenty under her rule. And so it was, harvests were bountiful the Seven Kingdoms over. Fruits from the Reach and wine from the Arbor, grain from the North and Riverlands. The mines in the Westerlands drew rich ore, and the seas provided plenty.
Trade went up and down the Kingsroad, from the Gift to Dorne. Barges, of pleasure and profit, sailed on the Mander and others, hulls filled with provisions or revelers. Ships from across the Narrow sea and beyond landed on her shores, bringing spices and furs and tales from distant lands.
Those gathered here showed the prosperity of the land, silks and satins, cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver, gold and silver and copper, opals and garnets and emeralds, ermine and vair adorned her lords and ladies.
Fools tumbled and bards played. Her cooks had provided seven hundred seventy seven dishes, each unique and flavorful with spices from all over the world. Knights and maidens danced, a twirl of gowns of every color imaginable.
Dany sat at the high table, dressed in a pale confection of red Myrish lace and white silk. Rubies at neck and ears and wrists, wrought in gold. A simple coronet inlaid with onyx and rubies sat upon her brow. Her hair was twisted into numerous braids, each one woven with the next until a single braid of silver blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder and down to her knees. Bells of every sort adorned the pleat, silver and gold and brass and iron, ceramic and glass and enamel, a twinkling of various sounds everytime she moved, a beautiful cacophony to her. A dreadful knoll for her vanquished enemies.
She sighed and took a sip of her wine, simply not interested in the antics of the latest acrobats brought in. She had seen it all before. Traveling the known, and unknown, world over, nothing here would be able to surprise her.
Westeros was beautiful in its own way, she supposed, the castles and septs rose high and proud against the horizon. The coasts and plains and forests, each held its own majesty. But so did the Dothraki sea and the ruins of Vaes Tolorro, the pyramids of Meereen and the Titan of Braavos.
The familiar melancholy fell over her, the feeling that there was something more here. There had to be, she just hadn't found it yet.
A small hand touched her shoulder and she turned to the right. Tyrion, she thought, his mismatched eyes watching her. The Imp, the Lannister Kinslayer, to those who knew of him. The Hand to those who knew him. And husband to her.
He was short and misshapen, spoke before he thought, loved what was between the pages of a book and what was between the blankets of a bed equally, and was her invaluable right hand.
She shook her head ever so slightly and he nodded and went back to his meal and conversation with Quentyn Martell. The latest dance ended and the partners bowed to each other and either stayed for the next or went back to their seats.
A man sat down on her left, his eyes darker than her own and his hair brown, but the same Targaryen blood flowed through his veins too. In truth, Jon was her own nephew, even though he had a year on her.
He was smiling, his handsome face flushed from dancing with his cousin Sansa. He was typically so stern looking, his Stark blood and raising showing through more readily than the blood they shared.
Her husband too, even though he had objected at first.
With two husbands she had no lack of attention, in fact she welcomed it. They both sowed their seeds on her often and eagerly, each time beseeching the Mother for her womb to quicken and bear the kingdom's heir.
And yet time and time again her moonblood flowed, a monthly stamp of her barrenness. The moon turned, followed by the seasons and years, and still no life grew within.
Could it be Tyrion? The dwarf had never fathered a bastard on any whore. Or perhaps Jon? The blood of her own blood. Or maybe the witch's curse from so many years ago, you will never bear a living child she had said before she killed her.
A chill ran through her, something even the dread winter had never achieved. Everything would disappear when she died. The four Wardens would fight each other, laying waste to Westeros in a war bloodier than the last, for this time anyone might try and claim the Iron Throne.
The dragon kings and queens would eventually pass from memory, perhaps surviving as a story for the singers to entertain drunken oafs in taverns.
No, she wouldn't have it. She lifted her head, on hand idly dropping to her lap to stroke the dragon egg that sat there. Here is the future, she delicately caressed the deep purple egg, feeling the flame of life pulse through her palm and thighs.
Here was the proof of the dragon's future, and her own. She carried it everywhere, unwilling to part with the manifestation of her womb. She was the blood of the dragon, there would be no mistake.
The cold bitter steel of the throne went right through her to her bones. She shivered, never really able to stay warm anymore.
The room was empty, gone were the courtiers and their entourages. The guards and pages. The rich woven tapestries hung, faded and torn. The rushes on the floor brittle and rotten. No knights came to beg her favor, no lords on bended knee bringing her gifts. Even the hounds had deserted her, scavenging for scraps somewhere else.
All was gone.
Dany sat on the Iron Throne, her silver blonde hair merely gray now, her skin wrinkled over her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. Her arms were frail and hands bony and spotted, her gown hung off of her skeletal frame.
She was old, she knew. The Stranger had come for the others long ago, his half human half beast form lurking in the shadow ever still. She knew he would come for her, sooner than later, she could feel the life drain from her by the minute.
She was half blind with cataracts but her ears worked just fine, she could hear the shouts of the battle outside the keep. The clang of metal on metal, the thunk of metal and flesh. Growing louder and louder as she herself seemed to fade further and further.
Her spindly fingers ever so slightly touched the purple egg. Once hot and beautiful, now cold and shattered, the pieces of the shell in the valley of her lap. The dead edges cut her papery skin, but she didn't feel her blood flowing ever so slowly to stain the tatters of her gown.
The red liquid pooled amongst the broken bones of the dead dragon, the one who never hatched, the child that was never born.
Queen Daenerys Targaryen was found dead on the Iron Throne, surrounded by the bones of her dragons.
Disclaimer: I really don't own.
A/N: So I got this idea in my head after doodling a picture of Dany on the Iron Throne, and couldn't get it out. I want to do a series of what-ifs from various queen's povs. Dany is the most logical place to start.