Everything in her vision blurred, lost in a tangle of fire and grief, smoke and tears washing away everything that had come before. In her hour of need, she'd been forsaken. Drogon had abandoned her. Jorah… Jorah was lost to her. Her armies had crumbled beneath the hordes of the dead. Even her supporters were turning on her. She could see it in their eyes, as the fire she'd kindled with them flickered. Jorah's fire had been the only one to never waver, but now.. now even his had been snuffed out in this unquenchable ice.

Never before had her need been so great and never had she been so utterly alone. When she'd lost Drogo and their child and his riders had abandoned them, she thought she'd been brought truly low. Then when her people has almost perished on the great grass sea, she thought the fire has spared her for naught. Again, when her dragons had been stolen by the sorcerers at the house of the undying she thought she could lose no more. But each time she'd risen all the stronger for having been brought so low.

And the higher she rose, the easier it was to believe that she'd been set apart for a glorious purpose. The easier it was to forget she'd once considered her own brother a fool for believing that the small folk of Westeros cared if the Targaryen's returned to the throne. The easier it was to forget that if she wanted to reclaim her birthright it would take more than fire and blood.

No one could fight an enemy on all sides, not even a dragon queen.

She didn't know where she was going or who was leading her after being torn away from Jorah. She had no sense of time or place. Everything was lost. Everything was turning to ice. Viserion… Jon… Jorah… everything that she'd held dear was lost in an endless sea of ice.

Burn them all. Melt the ice and bring them back life. Burn them all.

"Burn them all."

A sharp, stinging slap across the face brought her to her senses and with her senses she realized she'd been screaming those words… her fathers words over and over again.

Before her stood Varys, the picture of composure with his hands tucked into his long and flowing sleeves. No one would guess by looking at him that he stood at the helm of a sinking ship.

The tip of several spears pressed to his neck in response for the slap he'd given his queen, but not even the slightest trace of fear reached his eyes. What did reach his eyes was a faint hint of contempt.

Daenerys's face burned with shame.

"If you would be so kind as to tell your men to stand down." He said, as though it really mattered very little to him.

She looked around at the unsullied, spears trained on the man who'd dared to lay a hand on their queen. Even if that queen was screaming a mad order in her grief.

Perhaps… she realized, unwavering loyalty was not without its flaws.

Her gaze found Gray Worm and she nodded. Gray Worm nodded in return, taking a step back and withdrawing his spear.

"I'm sure they could be of greater use elsewhere." Varys said. "You're safe with me, your majesty. At least as safe as anyone can be tonight."

Daenerys swallowed hard. The Spider spoke with such calm, it was difficult to reconcile that with the sounds of battle outside the tower. She'd made a name for herself across the seas by overthrowing the men who were unfortunate enough to underestimate her. Evil men. Men who deserves the justice that came to them at her hands. But before her stood a man, eunuch or not, who did not underestimate her. No, he saw her, all of her, and, unlike her adoring followers, he found her wanting.

She turned her attention to Gray Worm.

"I will be fine. Go where you're needed." She said.

Gray Worm bowed and lead his men from the tower, leaving Daenerys alone with the spymaster turned commander.

"I gather that Ser Jorah is lost to us." Varys observed.

Daenerys swallowed hard, but could not find her voice to speak. Instead, she nodded.

"You have my condolences. He was a uniquely capable man and devoted to fault."

"I didn't mean…"

"We all have our moments of weakness." Varys said, he voice momentarily sympathetic. "But private griefs must stay just that: private. When one chooses to raise oneself up above their fellow man they sacrifice the right to grieve as their fellow man. You have named yourself queen. You must be queen. No matter the pain you face."

"You speak too freely."

"Because someone must."

Daenerys looked down in shame. Are you a sheep? No, you're a dragon. Be a dragon. Lady Olena's words echoed in her mind. How had she grown so small? She was the mother of dragons. She brought the slavers of Slavers Bay to their knees. When had she lost the conqueror she'd been? When had she waned into a scared little girl?

The last time she remembered being herself was in Kings Landing. Standing with Jon Snow in the dragon pit. Looking at the ruins of the place where her ancestors had turned dragons into slaves.

A dragon was not meant to be caged and the same could be said for the Targaryens. She'd been in a cage of her own ambitions since her ships landed at Dragonstone. She'd come to Westeros for a throne, but instead she'd found herself bending to a land that was hers by right but not by nature. Westeros was the wheel. She'd come to break it and instead found herself chained to it. She had filled the masses with wonder and awe as much as her dragons, but she was wasting away. Westeros was making her small. She could see now that this place was always to be the doom of the Targaryens.

She never should have come to Westeros.

A dragon was not meant to be a slave.

Not even to the Iron Throne.

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