Hello, all!
As many of you are, I was a little burnt out by the finale of Game of Thrones. Regardless, I'd always support the show because it brought me some of the best characters I could hope for in writing and storytelling, though I had a feeling of emptiness when it ended. I needed more, and I thought it might be best to do a little short retelling here. Depending on the feedback, I might continue this as a story, as I have a lot of ideas as to what could happen after this specific scene, though we'll have to wait and see! Let me know if you enjoyed this.
InsomniousInk
Xo
The bells sang in union, sending the message across Westeros (and Old Valeria) that the surrender had been formed.
Though hatred burned through Daenerys Targaryen, etching out only one possible path for her to take.
Vengeance.
Under the burning eye of the garnet sun, she stared into the endless sky and saw Jorah's eyes; kind in their creases and bright in their promise to deliver the seven kingdoms. He had done what was promised, though death had taken him before such a victory.
Missandei was another pawn in this game of thrones.
Daenerys's stomach turned with the thought of her- her confidant, companion and friend. Brown eyed and dark haired, light hearted and dead. Forever one with the earth.
There was no celebration in her death, especially knowing that Cersei Lannister had let her suffer in chains - the one tying piece of dread that Dany had tried to free her from.
There was a sick sense of poetic hatred in there somewhere.
Those sweet eyes of Missande's drifted through her memory - envisioning her sweet, shy cusp of laughter. The remembrance brought forward no tears of sadness, as it had moments she perished, but an anger of the sourest kind.
Drogon shifted beneath her, the scales of his sharded back heating with an outraged fire.
One word, she thought. One word and all innocence would be avenged.
Though she couldn't, she wouldn't… would she?
That anger within her now - for her family and children - was far from meaningless emotion. The anger was now apart of her - an organ that pumped and throbbed with life. Slice it out with revenge, and it would slop to the ground, hissing and screaming in unyielding protest. It was as real as her heart, if she bared such a thing anymore.
Daenerys tightened her hands around Drogon's neck and looked to the horizon for Cercei, finding not a shadow nor a person, but the tower in the western quarter; home to her greatest enemy.
One word, Dany thought, and Drogon would release his molton breath in a flurry of orange fire, ending her turmoil and pain.
The townspeople of old valyria scurried like swarming ants through the broken archway, rushing past Greyworm to freedom. She saw the torment in his gaze, feeling every whirl of his slashing sword.
One word, Dany thought again.
Her anguish would surely be seized.
The thrumming bells laughed at her with each chime, and suddenly, Tyrion's words of wisdom made no logical sense.
Dany leant against the rough spine of her most volatile weapon, and whispered into his ear:
"Dracarys."
The dragon thundered from the rocky edge in a whirl of rushing wings, launching into the belly of the sky. He tore through the clouds with Dany at his mercy, those long tresses of violent white flowing with the wind.
She felt his cockles warm with the impending breath, the temperature building in one, two, three surges of air. The children beneath her began to scream and scurry, and that knot of guilt tightened as Drogon unhinged his vicious jaws, roaring loud enough to numb the clocktower.
Daenerys shielded her gaze from expectant light, though nothing came. Drogon whirled and was heading for the red keep, making it hard for her to keep seated.
"Dracarys!" The silver mother screamed again, seeing those petrid soldiers flee without pain. Though Drogon ignored her. The height of independance startled her, clinging onto the varnished skin of her dragon's back as he arched and curled around buildings, swatting them away like a farm animal would twitch its ears from bothersome flies.
No, Drogon hadn't scorched the people of Westeros like she had asked. He was instead heading for Cercei's watchtower, the rumble in his gut deepening with every added second. It deemed as if he was intelligent enough to note that this woman, this thing of a human being, had killed his brother… had killed the kind-hearted Missandei, and had ripped away as much of his hurt as Daenerys had endured.
Though, surely, he couldn't understand such a thing… he was an animal, no intelligence stemmed past that.
Though he wasn't just an animal, Daenerys thought, Cersei's shadow coming into play.
He was a dragon. He seized every law, every article of life and nature. He was as old as the world itself, and she, was just a pawn in his game.
She realised then that this wasn't about her loss, but his also. She was only along for the ride.
"Do what you will, my child." Daenerys whispered into his air, spoken in raw Dothraki. Drogon responded with a shriek of understanding, sending chills down her spine. Her moment of anguish had vanished, and she saw the hurrying women and children, even men, that bared the same dark hair as her sun and stars, the moon of her life… Drogo. Tears threatened to overcome, though she was quick to swallow them. Now wasn't the time for redemption. She would find that after the bounty had been paid.
Drogon veered left and curled around the slanted building of an old church, each flap of his wings knocking the balance of the crowd.
Daenerys desperately held for guidance, her knees tightening against his rigid frame, her thighs burning from the friction.
As they approached the castle, Cercei was nowhere to be seen - though the news didn't halt the dragon. In one breath, he released a flurry of molton flames down onto the tower, breaking brick, stone and iron. Destruction rained down upon the city, rushing the people of Westeros for haven.
Daenerys couldn't bare to look as those beyond the gates were caught in the riptide of mass desolation, the penalty and judgement serving duefully. She buried her face deep into Drogon's scales, her skin melting by the fire that scorched throughout his entire body. She felt her flesh burn to red as flamed licked long lashes from his twisted tongue.
The world around them began to crumble.
Cercei's castle caved in on itself, and the poverty stricken crowd watched from afar, gambling for freedom when running through enemy quarters, straight past Greyworm and his fleet. The rich died along with the merchants, plummeted by the heavy foundation of Westeros's fine landmark of an empire. If her eyes weren't so hot from the heat, she would have gazed over the massacre with great satisfaction.
'You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?' Viserys had said.
The dragon was certainly awake now, and she felt the hot cobbles of its heritage seizing through her veins. The same feeling she had bared when corrupting the ice in the North against the battle of the dead.
No, she couldn't come back from this feeling, this immensity of power. And she had a feeling that neither could her beloved Drogon.
His inferno burned holes and stripes through the square, crumbling it to dust and the small group of people 'good enough' to be inside Cersei's gates (thus becoming protected by her seized army) charcoaling to black ash.
His large, skeletal wings curled and sprung, bringing them closer to the flames where they swam, diving through the yellow, amber and copper light, straight into the open sky. Daenerys silver hair clung to the flames though didn't burn, the ends only sparking like dancing fireflies., her fur coat from the north catching alight. It didn't burn nor bother her, feeling homely and hot against her skin. She rode through the great underbelly of the world like the dragon she had always aspired to be, and let her clothes singe to nothing, the screams of the wealthy like music to her ears.
The wheel was beginning to break.
She came to land not an hour later, wearing nothing but the silken slip she had beneath every gown. It was the lightest shade of blue, ruined from the bottom in tattered streaks of burnt lace. It dripped off her body in a twisted drizzle of sky fabric, exposing the entirety of one thigh whilst the other remained covered. Daenerys was careful to slide from Drogon as she approached the ground, finding no more than Tyrion and his accompanying friend, Sir Davos.
"M'lady," Sir Davos began, "was it entirely wise to pursue the castle even after the alarm had been sounded?"
Tyrion stared straight ahead, looking to the distance where the fire was dying, and the smoke was billowing in great chuffs of black smoke. She ignored the gentleman to his left, and looked straight at the imp- the hand, to her now seized throne.
When Daenerys didn't answer Sir Davos, Tyrion finally spoke.
"I thought we had an agreement."
"Then you thought wrong." She said, in that high voice that had come from years of ruling. It was accustomed to her, as fit as the twirling braids hanging down her back. "I listened to your plea for innocence, and I spared the lives of many in Westeros. I sought my enemy and took her beloved council of people with her."
Daenerys was smart to leave out her moment of weakness, for it was now just the smallest of secrets between her and the old gods… perhaps even the new.
Tyrion swallowed hard with the mention of his sister, still as weak as he had been when they were children. The scar aligning his face creased with his furrowed brows, making him look all the more older, and all the more troubled.
He knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that this was bound to happen. Though it still didn't free the tug of pain around his heart. His last living family were gone, and it was only him left to serve the true name.
His father would be ashamed.
Jamie would be rejoiced.
Daenerys continued that impassive stare, the one an accomplished ruler had mastered, and waited with the patience of a saint. Though a saint she was not, in her own mind.
Tyrion after a moment of contemplation, and hidden mourning, nodded once, and turned from her observant eye. "Right, on we go. Let us find the queen something fitting to wear."
Daenerys waved her hand at Sir Davos, who was already shrugging his jacket off. "I'm fine." She said, and strode passed Drogon, toward the archway of broken rock. "I want to see my throne."
"Daenerys." Came a voice from behind, thick and memorable, stirring something even hotter than dragon-fire inside of her. Jon Snow stood before her, his hair white with ashes, his blade rusted with blood. Behind him were the fleet that survived, and toward him was the silver-haired wonder that had won the seven kingdoms.
Her tattered dress blew in the wind, bringing his ever-so gentlemanly gaze down her once, before sliding back up. They said nothing, and in the same sense, they said everything.
She extended her hand toward him, and without hesitation, he took it, walking with her toward the castle that burned bright against the lilac sky.