The Unburnt Queen

She wasn't quite sure what she expected to return to once she reached the Great Pyramid, but it certainly wasn't this. True, it was about as chaotic as she'd expected it to be—servants rushing to and fro in a vain attempt to clean up the great burn marks, blood spatters, and piles of debris that adorned the once pristine halls of the pyramid. There were also dozens of gold masks piled on the balcony protruding from her room, allowing her to place an extra piece into the puzzle of what had happened but still leaving her utterly clueless. Surely the city couldn't have fallen into such chaos in the short time she'd been gone, even if she was unsure of the exact timeframe?

Still, as she dismounted Drogon and stepped onto the balcony, she was met by three familiar looks of joy, with Missandei rushing forward and hugging her, Barristan's face crinkling into a smile as it always did, and the slightest glimmer of happiness entering Grey Worm's eyes. The myriad of other faces, however, she did not recognise.

'This must be Daenerys, I take it,' said a redheaded young man, looking at her with equal parts fear and fascination.

'This,' Missandei shot back with a cold glare toward the young man, 'is Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Lady of Dragonstone, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.'

Gods, Daenerys thought. Those are a lot of titles for someone who smells and looks as bad as I do.

After charring and fleeing from Khal Jhaqo's khalasar, she'd scarcely stopped before reaching Meereen—she was still dressed in the tattered rags of the tokar she'd been wearing at Daznak's pit, albeit it was now stained, torn, and burnt in equal measure, leaving much of herself revealed to the crowd staring before her. Even beyond her dress, however, she couldn't deny that she looked terrible. The holes in her outfit highlighted her prominent ribs, and the smears of dirt and dust on her face did little to hide how visible her cheekbones were. Worst of all, however, was her hair. In her brief skirmish with the Khal's men, Drogon—who was still not, at that point, fully obedient—had let out a brutal torrent of white hot flame, showering the men that meant them harm with fire. He'd killed them all instantly, of course, but had inadvertently included Daenerys in his decimation, setting alight both her hair and clothes in equal measure. Unlike Drogo's pyre however, she had not stayed in the flames long enough for them to finish their work; as such had half a head of hair, glorious and shining as usual, and half bare scalp, naked save for a thin layer of peach fuzz that had grown in the past weeks.

She cleared her throat. 'Missandei, might you call for a bath to be drawn, and for some food to be brought?'

'Of course, khaleesi,' she replied, meeting her eyes somewhat nervously. 'But, uh…might I suggest a barber also?'

Daenerys sighed. 'That would probably be best. And then,' she continued, moving her gaze to the crowd of people stood before her, 'I'll find out just what all of you are doing here.'

'That…well, quite frankly, that makes no sense.'

All of them were now sat around a large stone table with Daenerys at the head, and were no longer in her solar but rather a spacious room usually reserved for more bureaucratic meetings. She'd cleaned up and dressed herself more appropriately in a fine blue gown that had been gifted to her my a rich Volantine merchant wanting her favour. Her hair had been sorted out as well, with the finest barber Meereen had to offer giving her a soft fuzz of uniform length all over her scalp. Her eyebrows, thankfully, still remained intact. As such, she was aware she was a far cry from the dirt-ridden mess they'd seen mere hours before, but that still didn't explain the incredulous looks she was receiving.

'Forgive me, your maje—'

'Khaleesi.' Her voice was soft, but the iron beneath could not be mistaken for anything else.

'Khaleesi. Fine,' said the man who'd introduced himself as Oberyn Martell. 'Perhaps you misunderstood a part of what we said.'

'I misunderstood nothing, Prince Martell. You claim you've been resurrected in order to fight the Long Night and require my dragons to do so, with your companions all seemingly indulging this madness. Your companions, that is, who include the Conqueror and his sister-wives, the Sword of the Morning, the first King in the North in centuries, and the Queen who burnt a thousand ships. Oh yes, and two members of House Lannister, my father's lickspittle, and a young man who may or may not be a Targaryen. Am I forgetting anything?'

All were silent, until the redheaded man who'd spoken earlier—Robb Stark, she now knew—raised a finger. 'Well, uh, for one, we aren't the only ones that returned—much of my family has as well, as have other Kingsguard, other Targaryens, and a few Baratheons.'

'Baratheons? You mean—?'

'Aye. King Robert has returned.'

At last, some good news. 'Excellent,' she said. 'I'll look forward to killing him myself.'

'You'll do no such thing, Khaleesi,' Stark said.

'And who do you think you are, to tell me what I can or can't do?'

Stark smirked at her, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was inching ever closer to being roasted to a crisp. 'I'm a king who's actually lived in the land he rules. You claim to be the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms without ever having stepped foot on them. Let me tell you something about being a king, your grace. Every ruler needs allies, and in the war to come—whether you believe it to be true or not—we'll need every ally available, Robert included.'

'I know about alliances, Lord Stark, and I refuse to be lectured on such a subject by a man who was assassinated by his own bannermen—'

'Oh, and I suppose that explains why Meereen is currently in such a lovely state!' Robb interrupted, his voice rising alongside his temper.

'Enough!' shouted Aegon, slamming a fist down onto the table. 'Such childish arguments are beneath both of you, and we do not have time for it regardless. 'Robb, you are Daenerys's guest and have no right to attack her in such a manner. Daenerys…Robb is correct. In the wars to come, both in fighting the Long Night and retaking the Iron Throne, we will need all the allies and soldiers we can get, and few men can do either quite as well as Robert. He has, however, agreed to stand trial once this is all over.'

'And you believe that he'll meekly submit to a trial once this is over?' Daenerys asked incredulously, baffled at the trust that this man—her ancestor, supposedly—had in the man who'd brought his dynasty to its knees.

'I do.'

The two of them locked eyes, and simply stared for a few moments; her angrily, him calmly, before she stood.

'It's been a long day. Quarters will be provided, and I suggest you all get some rest. Tomorrow, you can begin to prove that what you've told me is true.'

'And how are we to do that, your grace?' Oberyn asked.

'I have no idea,' she replied without looking back. 'I suppose you'd better think of something.'

With that, she walked out.

'By the way, uncle,' she heard a young sounding voice say as she left. 'Did you find out if I was really a Targaryen or not?'

'Gods, he was unbearable! I swear to you, Missandei, even if it's all real, even if they help me take Westeros and they use my dragons to fight the others, there is no way I'm fighting alongside such an arrogant and smug man! Did you see that way he smirked at me? Gods, what a nightmare he was.'

'Yes Khaleesi,' her handmaiden replied, stifling a small smile. 'Utterly unbearable.'

'Did you hear her, Oberyn! By the old gods and the new, what an entitled little brat,' Robb said, sitting on his bed as he removed a boot. 'She asked who I thought I was. Well, I'll show her exactly who I bloody well am.' He sighed. 'I tell you, Oberyn, there's no way this whole business will conclude without us coming to blows.'

'Gods,' Oberyn responded, his eyes shut and his body already prone on the hard bed across the room from Robb. 'Go to sleep boy.' The volume of his voice dropped to the point where the young northerner could not hear it. 'I'm sure you'll get your chance at some point.'

Rhaenys

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said,' Visenya responded as though she was talking to a lackwit, or perhaps a young child, 'that we will require three people who would mean to harm the blood of the dragon. Four, if you want proof for the boy as well.'

After Daenerys had left last night, Oberyn had revealed that he'd spotted the tell-tale mole of the Martells on the back of Young Griff's head.

'However,' he'd warned them, 'this provides no legitimacy as far as his Targaryen lineage—all it does is prove that he has a drop of Martell blood in his veins.'

Jon Connington slammed the table. 'Are you calling me a liar, Prince Martell? You doubt the legitimacy of my claims—'

'Would you believe that this isn't about you, Jon? It's about the boy, and no-one else,' Oberyn responded, before looking to Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys. 'I presume you have some way to prove that you are, in fact, Targaryens?'

They nodded.

'Is it dangerous?'

'Extremely,' said Visenya. 'Provided you're not a Targaryen.'

Oberyn placed a hand on Young Griff's shoulder. 'The choice is yours. Either you are proven to be a Targaryen, die trying, or take your place as a member of House Martell. We are kin. Never forget that.'

All were silent as the boy made his choice. He looked at them all in slow succession, mouthing utterances as though he were trying to drag his thoughts out of his mind so that they might make sense. And then he spoke. 'I…I'll do it. I need to know.'

'Yes,' said Aegon to the still-sceptical Daenerys. 'Four should suffice. And if you have any large bolts of cloth, they would be much appreciated.'

Daenerys whispered a command to a nearby unsullied, who subsequently marched out of the room with the machine-like rigidity that his kind was known for, returning minutes later with a small train of filthy looking prisoners. 'Will they do?'

'They'll do excellently, Khaleesi,' Visenya said. 'Ah, the cloth. Perfect.'

As they'd planned last night, the four of them were dressed in the simplest clothes any of them had worn in a long time—a loincloth for Aegon and Griff, whilst herself and Visenya also had bindings across their breasts; true, it would all prove to be useless in a short time, but they may as well preserve their dignity as long as they could—and were stood in a line, a foot between them. They were also all beneath the Pyramid's foundations in a dark room lit only by torches, causing their shadows to flicker back and forth as the prisoners were planted at their feet. All the while, an unchained Drogon looked on hungrily.

'Might I ask what these men did, Khaleesi?' Rhaenys asked diplomatically. Sure, she'd never shy away from necessary deaths, but she still preferred not to be the cause of them for undeserving people.

'Barristan tells me that these were the men throwing spears at Drogon and I before we made our escape from Daznak's Pit. Will that suffice?'

'It will.'

With that, the three Targaryens( and the young man hoping to be proven one of them) drew their blades across the throats of the prisoner at their respective feet; one by one they fell forward onto the length of cloth, soaking it in blood as their final death rattles took place. It was no longer the pale cream colour it had been, but rather the crimson of the spilled blood of the men now lying dead before them.

Their purposes served for the moment, the bodies were shunted off to the side, as each of the Targaryens (save Daenerys, of course) knelt and cut off a length of the soaked cloth, wrapping the tops of their heads with it coving their hair, eyebrows, and lashes.

Finally, Visenya reached for a plain cloth bag, placing it at the feet of Rhaenys, who stood between her brother and sister.

'We're ready,' Aegon said at last to the crowd gathered nearby. 'I suggest the rest of you stand back. Gods, it's been years since I last did this. Who'd like the honour?'

'Let Griff do it,' Rhaenys suggested, shooting the young man a kind smile. After all, he might be dying within the minute—the least she could do was give him a pleasant enough view.

'A fine idea,' agreed Visenya, albeit absent the smile; rather, she was looking at the dragon challengingly, as though she intended to take it on in a fistfight.

Griff gulped, and said a single word.

'Dracarys.'

And, with that, their world became flame.

Daenerys

The fire raged for barely thirty seconds, but all could feel the scorching heat reverberating from the stone walls. Everyone in attendance—those who'd returned, the Lannister duo, the inner circle of Daeneryys Targaryen, and a worried-looking Jon Connington—instinctively stepped back. Everyone, save Daenerys. The heat was her home, after all, and after a childhood on the run, she never planned on being without one ever again.

And then it died. Smoke still filled the room, so naught could be seen of the four who'd entered the flames, but Daenerys felt a worried pang I her chest—had she really condemned those of her blood to a heat-stricken death?

'I told you,' came a voice from the dissipating smoke. 'Fire cannot kill a dragon.' Aegon Targaryen stepped out, snaked and covered in soot, but otherwise unscathed—even his hair, Daenerys could see, was intact, apparently protected by the miraculously unburnt bloody rag covering it. Then came Visenya and Rhaenys, similarly untroubled.

And then nothing. Everyone's breath was caught in their throat as the smoke became ever thinner, ready for the inevitably charred corpse of Young Griff. What they had not expected was his form, intact as the other three, to be curled up, surrounded by three dragons the size of kittens. He slowly stood, turning around as they flew to the three Targaryens who'd left moments before, offering a strange smile before promptly collapsing.

All stood silently in shock, staring at his prone body, until Aegon spoke again. 'Might someone be good enough to fetch us some clothes? I'd rather not travel through the Pyramid in the nude.'

Robb

Had someone told him during the War of the Five Kings that he'd witness four people enter dragon-flame and four people leave, he'd have thought them mad. After all, dragons didn't exist, and even if they did, none were immune to having the seven hells burnt out of them. Even once he'd awoken beyond the wall, he'd have had a hard time believing that it could happen, even if the limits of what was possible had been drastically increased.

So now, sat around a notably less-frosty-than-it-had-been table at the side of Aegon, he wasn't sure what he felt. Shock? Numbness? Fear?

Yes, fear was an adequate description, although the others weren't necessarily wrong.

'Gods, sorry lad.' The words came from Aegon, who was attempting to wrestle a piece of meat from the mouth of the dragon on his shoulder. 'I know a time will come where they're laying waste to fields of men at a time but stealing people's food when they're less than a day out of the egg? It's shameful, and you have my apologies.'

'Keep them, my lord. There's plenty to go around, and I'm sure we'll soon be missing the days where a piece of meat was all they needed to be satisfied.'

The conqueror smiled, and Robb immediately felt more at ease—sure, he may have had what would one day be a powerful weapon clinging to his shoulder, but he was a good man, and as such was more likely to use the weapon for good. 'I suppose you're right,' he conceded. 'Still. I suppose there may come a day where Balerion here has enough space in their stomach for a certain Lannister queen.'

At that, Robb smiled. 'You intend to call them Balerion?'

'I already have, and I've an inkling that Rhaenys and Visenya have named theirs in a similar manner. A bond with a dragon is a unique thing—according to scholars, Valyrian and Westerosi alike, no two bonds between a dragon and its rider are the same. And yet when I emerged form the smoke and Bal here followed, it was as if I were with my old companion all over again. Not to mention he's identical. You see the red ridges there?' He gestured to the dragon's jaw and Robb nodded, noticing that there were, in fact, three red lines not unlike a blazing hot poker. 'Balerion had the very same ones. Meraxes and Vhagar did not, nor did Drogon when I inspected him. No, this is Balerion, and any other name would not truly be his.'

Robb shrugged as he took a sip from the honeyed wine before him. 'That's fair enough, I suppose.' He looked to his right, where Daenerys, entitled little princess that she was, was grilling a still-numb looking Griff. They'd toyed with calling him Aegon, but all it did was confuse people—unlike in Westeros, where the unlikely had gone by Egg in all except the most formal occasions, the absence of any such nickname made it easier for all to refer to him by his old moniker. 'I have one more question, if you don't mind? Well, two, I suppose.'

'Of course?'

'Firstly, Robb began, 'why did Griff have a far harder time in the flames than you three? Aren't you all the blood of the dragon?'

'Well, yes and no,' Aegon answered. 'Vis, Rhae, and myself are purely blood of the dragon. I know what you all think—it's inbreeding, pure and simple: had we any other bloodline that may be so, and even we still have our share of cases where it goes wrong. The fact remains, however, that our blood is different to others, and any outside interference will weaken our link to our dragons, and to the magic that protects us. That's why the three of us were absolutely fine, as we are descended solely from dragonlords, whilst I'd imagine Daenerys had more difficulty, and Griff had even more.'

'Because her parents were both Targaryens, but there'd been other bloodlines mixed, correct? And then Griff had unrelated parents, so his claim would be weaker, as would Jon's, I assume?'

'That is correct. Now, didn't you have another question?'

Robb swallowed. 'I suppose I was wondering why the dragons flocked to the three of you, despite being around his body?'

'He is one of ours, no matter the strength of his blood, so the dragons will always look out for him. Same with Daenerys, as with Jon.'

'Huh.' He'd never thought of it that way, but he supposed it made sense. 'I…I have one more question.'

'Go ahead.'

'What actually happened? You know, with the flames, the dragon, the prisoners. How did it happen?'

Aegon cleared his throat, taking a moment to carefully adjust the dragon sleeping on his shoulder. 'Blood magic. There's no prettier way to say it, but I won't shy away. I'm aware of it, but I don't claim to understand it. As far as I do, though, it goes like this: the blood of those who wish to harm the blood of the dragon interacts with fire, essentially rendering it harmless to us. Daenerys, for example, killed a witch named Mirri Maz Duur to hatch her own eggs, during which she remained in a funeral pyre for an entire night. I contrast, thirty seconds of dragon flame is not quite so impressive, wouldn't you agree?'

Damn. He had a point—as irritating as she may be, he couldn't deny that a night spent in a funeral pyre was formidable to say the least. Not to mention, it explained the burn on Jon's hand—no blood had been spilt, and as such he'd been injured. Gods, it really was irritating that they were fighting a largely bloodless army beyond the Wall. 'And the cloth?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You know, the cloth that you wrapped around your head? The one covered in blood?'

The conqueror nodded. 'Ah the cloth. It's simple, really—I rather like my hair how it is, and my sisters preferred not to go bald as well. Although,' he said more quietly, beckoning for Robb to lean closer. 'I think Griff was just copying us and didn't have a clue whether it would work or not.'

It wasn't a long walk to his chambers but it wasn't a short one either, and Robb was grateful for the walk. He was unused to honeyed wine, and the exertion would hopefully sober him up enough that he wouldn't have too bad a hangover in the talks of the following day. Given the manner in which he was currently staggering, he wagered he'd need it.

'Stark.'

He whirled around at his name, almost falling from his unsteady legs, only to see Daenerys looking at him with challenge in her eyes. For once, she was not flanked by the usual cockless sentinels, and there appeared to be less of a pretence of royalty. For the first time, he felt as though he was seeing the real Daenerys Targaryen.

'I feel as though we could've been more…diplomatic yesterday. After all, it would seem that we have similar aims, and, well…I'd rather have you as an ally than an enemy, you know?'

'Very well, Khaleesi,' he said, dropping into a ridiculous bow, stifling a laugh as he did so. Gods, he hadn't been this bad since he and Jon had liberated one of their father's barrels on his ten-and-fourth name day. He stood again, and met her gaze, slowly blinking and taking a deep breath in a vain effort to sober up. It didn't work.

'Gods, you're ridiculous. Farewell, lord Stark. I'll be seeing you later.' With that she swiftly turned around and began marching to her own quarters.

Ah, there's the pretence again, he thought, before her tokar wrapped itself around her foot, sending her plummeting to the ground.

Had he been one of the knights in Sansa's songs, he'd have leapt to her rescue, sweeping her off her feet just in the nick of time. He wasn't, however, and his attempt to be so resulted in him landing squarely on top of her, leaving them both breathless.

Robb lay unmoving for a moment, trying to comprehend just where he was, until her swats on his arm prompted him to roll off with a dull thud.

'Good night, Lord Stark,' Daenerys huffed before speeding away, this time holding her tokar up for some extra manoeuvrability.

'Sorry!' he shouted after her to no answer. For a moment more, he lay still, thinking about what had just transpired.

Gods, she really is very pretty.

'Do you require anything else, Khaleesi?' Missandei enquired as she untied the last knot of Daenerys's outfit.

'Thank you, but no,' Daenerys replied, her eyes distant and scarcely focused. 'I have much to think about.'

Her handmaiden nodded enthusiastically. 'Of course, Khaleesi. I suppose it is not every day that dragons return to the world, nor that the Targaryens are reunited.'

Of course, those should've been what her mind was lingering on; the weapons of her conquest and the wars to come, the rekindling of a near extinct dynasty, even the potential threat that Griff posed to her claim.

And yet, all she could think of was that insufferable Robb Stark.

A/N: Another chapter, this soon? Madness. Trying to write Daenerys is tough-I've tried to make her human enough, but still appropraitely unwilling to bend, as she'd likely be if she was faced with what she has been. Sorry if that hasn't been a success. I've also tried to expand on some of the lore regarding Targaryens, blood magic, and how it works. I'm aware it's not the best, but oh well. As always, feel free to favourite, follow, and review, and a massive thank you to those who already have.

In other news, today I put the first chapter of this fic in the GoT category on FF before deleting it a few hours after. As I've mentioned before, I'm a very lazy person.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter and hope you're staying safe,

Kinginthenorth1 xox

DarthMaine: Let's just wait and see if it pays off...

kingmanaena: Thank you!

Blackwidow713: Cheers!