A/N: Hello! We've got some more fun dragon stuff in this chapter. And then some history in case you either haven't played Skyrim, or, have, but don't read up on lore like I love to. Either way, hope you enjoy. Oh, and in case you don't know, Dovahkiin is pronounced doe-vah-KEEN. Many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.

Rating: M for mentions of miscarriage and some strong language.

Though the sounds of the battle were deafening, her blood roared even louder, drowning out all but the sound of her heartbeat, fast and frantic in her chest. The heat of the flames was suffocating, but she felt no pain. It was everything inside of her that burned.

A terrible cry of pain rose amongst the din and Daenerys flinched away from the sound. In its wake came a heavy thud and through the smoke she could see that the dragon had been slain. An animalistic urge rose in her chest and she began to move toward it, her hand outstretched. Though she knew not why, every fiber of being was being drawn to the beast.

The second her fingers brushed its scales, her world went black. To try and describe the sensation would be in vain, for the power coursing through her blood was like nothing she had ever felt before. It was almost as if she was simultaneously being torn apart and put together, more wholly than she had been before. She wasn't entirely sure whether she should scream or fall to her knees and retch.

Before she could do either, a blinding light swirled around her and she gasped as it forced its way past her skin, satisfying that strange itch that had compelled her. Her mind whirled with the chorus of a thousand voices, chanting in a language that she did not know and yet felt that she could understand.

A vision of strength and power danced behind her eyelids and filled her with a force akin to nothing she could ever have imagined. Her eyes opened as her lips formed a command and with a single word, all that she felt inside of her rushed from her open mouth.

"FUS!"

And with that, she collapsed.

As she slept, Daenerys dreamed. She dreamt of dragons, one with three heads, and then another, with eyes as red as blood. They fought, in a seemingly endless battle, and as it continued, the first began to lose its strength. One head turned to ash and blew away in the wind, and the other shriveled into uselessness, slick with blood. She was afraid, but she could not tear herself away.

For what felt like ages, the images swirled behind her eyelids, dragging her farther and farther from the waking world. All about her, priestesses did their work, healing her aching body, and at her side, a man prayed to the gods he did not believe in that she would wake. They had begun to lose hope, but with time, the dreams began to fade, and on the ninth day, they drifted away to nothingness.

Dany felt her own mind return to her and was suddenly aware of movement around her. The shuffling of feet, the whisper of voices. A sharp pain lanced through her skull as she opened her eyes and she closed them once more, wincing as her head began to throb.

"Thank the Divines."

Her throat was dry when she tried to speak, and she felt a hand move against her back before she was propped up and given a small wooden mug.

"Drink it, girl."

She did as she was asked, and by the time she reached the bottom, the pain had begun to subside and was replaced by a weariness that ran bone deep. The Hound was at her side when she opened her eyes and once he was sure that she had regained her strength, his hands returned to his knees where they clenched absently into fists.

"Where am I?" Dany asked groggily, looking around. The room was dark, lit only by a few candles, and she could see the occasional flutter of movement through the thin panels of the walls.

"The Temple of Kynareth," Sandor replied, leaning back in his chair with a frown. "After what happened, we weren't sure that you were going to make it. I have my doubts about the gods, but it seems that if they exist, they may have a purpose for you yet."

Her attention lapsed after the vague allusion to what had occurred and she searched her mind for answers. The last thing she remembered was a shadow passing overhead and then...this. Waking up feeling like she had lived through several lifetimes in the time that she had been unconscious.

"She's the...Dragonborn..."

A flicker of a memory flashed before her eyes and a brief surge of power bubbled in the pit of her stomach before fizzling out again as the image faded.

"What...what did happen? I don't...I can't remember."

Sandor's frown deepened and he looked at her for a moment in silence before responding. "I don't have a gods damned idea. One moment we were fighting that thing and the next its skin was burning straight off and you..." He trailed off and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what happened to you. I know the legends but..." He shrugged again and shook his head. "You're just lucky to be alive."

Dany nodded absently, trying to recall what Farengar had told her when she had visited the city with Drogo and the caravan. He too had mentioned a legend...the Dragonborn.

"There's an old Nord legend of a hero known as the Dragonborn, or 'Dovahkiin' in the Dragon Tongue. This hero is said to be a mortal born with the soul of a dragon, this honor bestowed upon him by the Divine Akatosh himself. The tales told say that not only can the Dragonborn kill dragons, but he can steal their powers upon their death."

"I need to speak to Farengar," she said with a sudden sense of purpose, moving to swing her legs onto the floor.

"You need to rest." Sandor pushed her back down, his expression stern. "But once you're well, he'd like to speak with you too. It seems that he may be the only one with any answers, unbelievable as they may be."

As the familiar weariness returned once more, Dany nodded in defeat and sank onto the bed, letting herself succumb once more to the brief reprieve that sleep provided. This time, as she slept, she did not dream.

The next few days blurred together in a seemingly endless series of feverish illusions, fatigue, and confusion. When the sun rose on the fifth day however, Dany found herself awake once more and at home in her mind for the first time since the events at Helgen.

The room was dark and quiet, the only light filtering in through the high, narrow windows of the temple. The whisper of shuffling feet belied the presence of the priests and priestesses that watched over the temple and its shrine, but they made no appearance, tending to their other patients and leaving her to rest.

The massive sellsword was asleep in a chair in the corner, his chin on his chest and a deep frown on his harsh features, even in unconsciousness. Slowly, she sat up and placed her feet on the floor. The wooden floorboards were cold against her bare feet and she welcomed the sensation after the heat of her feverish nights.

A dull twinge of pain sent her hand to her belly and though she knew she probably needed only to eat, the motion reminded her of a much deeper pain and she felt her eyes welling with tears. She pressed a hand to her mouth as a sob rose in her throat and she curled in on herself, tears falling down her cheeks as the true realization of her loss forced itself to the forefront of her mind.

As her face contorted in grief, she heard a slight creak and she turned to find a pair of steel grey eyes stonily meeting her gaze.

For a long moment, he was silent, and when he spoke, it was hardly more than a whisper. "What was it?"

A loud hiccupping sob escaped her lips and she shook her head as a new wave of tears blurred her vision. "It was too soon to know, but...I imagined a son, tall and strong like his father. He would have been called Rhaego, after my brother."

Sandor nodded solemnly before speaking again. "Does your husband know?"

Dany shook her head once more. "It happened in Helgen, after we were separated. I had to...to jump from a tower to save myself and I..." She took a shaky breath. "I hoped that the pain was from the fall, but...that night...by the river..." Another sob wracked her body and Sandor averted his gaze as she continued. "The pain, and...all of the blood...I felt sick, and I tried to believe that I was just in shock, or...or..."

Silently, Sandor rose and moved to sit beside her, allowing her to curl against his shoulder as she dissolved into tears. "Oh, gods!" she wailed. "He's gone. And I'm...I'm just so...so tired..." Her sobs continued helplessly and Sandor breathed a heavy sigh.

"I know, girl. I know," he replied gruffly. "We all are."

Dearest Drogo,

I don't know what sort of news from Helgen you may have heard by now, but I wanted to write so you knew that I made it out alive. Viserys' summons was a trick as you suspected and he turned me over to the Imperial Legion in exchange for a crown. I was going to be executed along with Ulfric Stormcloak and his men when the dragon attacked. I wish I could say that I had been dreaming, but I saw it with my own eyes. The dragons have returned, my brother is dead, and I find myself half a world away from you. I can't know when this will reach you, but I hope it finds you well, and that we will be together again soon. For now, I am in Whiterun under the care of the Jarl, but I will not wait long before I travel to your side again. Balgruuf says the Legion will be marching on the city any day now, to defend it from a Stormcloak attack, and I do not intend to stay for their arrival. Until we see each other again, stay safe, my love. I need you now more than ever.

Love,
Daenerys

Dany lifted the quill from the page with a sigh and her companion looked up from his position in the corner.

"Do you feel better now?"

She nodded and stared absently at the letter while she waited for the ink to dry. "As much as can be expected. At least now he will know that I'm alive."

"Did you tell him about..." Sandor trailed off and Dany sighed again, shaking her head.

"No. That isn't news that a courier should bring."

Nodding, he stood up as she sealed the letter and absently adjusted the sword at his hip. "I'll take you straight to Markarth once you've spoken with that buffoon the Jarl calls his court wizard."

Dany raised her eyebrows. "What about Windhelm?"

Sandor shrugged. "You've been away from your husband for too long. Once I know you're safe at his side again I'll make my way to Windhelm. My business may take longer than I anticipate."

A moment of silence passed between them as they made their way out of the temple, and it was as they were ascending the steps to Dragonsreach that Daenerys spoke again.

"You're in love with Sansa Stark aren't you?"

The answer was immediate and confident, though he avoided her gaze. "Yes."

"And does she love you back?"

Again, there was no hesitation. "Yes."

She looked up at the surly sellsword for a moment before nodding. "I think that's a story I'd like to hear."

Sandor gave a noncommittal grunt and hefted open the door to the keep. "Later, girl. The story you need to hear now is that of the Dragonborn."

Farengar was pacing from one end of his study to the other when they entered. The hood of his robes lay rumpled about his shoulders, his auburn hair was matted, and his eyes were wild when they moved to the doorway.

"Lady Targaryen!" He all but leapt toward them when he caught sight of her, gripping her tightly by the arm and peering intently into her startled lavender eyes. "How do you feel? Was it painful? How did it feel when you shouted?"

"One question at a time please, Farengar," Daenerys said quietly, lowering herself into a nearby chair. "I've had a very trying last few weeks."

"Of course, of course," he muttered. "My apologies."

A long silence reigned as he tried to think of his most pressing question, but in the end, it was Dany who broke it.

"What happened to me?"

Farengar exchanged a glance with the Nord against the wall and though he looked unsure, Sandor nodded.

Turning back to Daenerys, the wizard sighed. "After the dragon was killed, you absorbed its soul."

Dany thought back to what she had felt: the power that had flowed through her veins, the strange clarity of her thoughts, the way the ground shook when she spoke. Her mind ached as she tried to make sense of it all. "What do you mean?"

Farengar looked a bit conflicted before eventually retreating to his chambers and returning with a leather-bound book. "Perhaps this will help you understand. It's written a bit simply, but my research can fill in anything that its author omits."

Frowning, Dany took the book and cracked open the leather cover to look at the title. The Book of the Dragonborn. Looking up again, she glanced from Farengar to Sandor and when both men nodded for her to continue, she began to read.

"Many people have heard the term "Dragonborn", but the true meaning of the term is not commonly understood. Most scholars agree that the term was first used in connection with the Covenant of Akatosh, when the blessed St. Alessia was given the Amulet of Kings and the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One were first lit. Those blessed by Akatosh with "the dragon blood" became known more simply as Dragonborn."

Scanning the pages that followed, she skipped over the history of the Septim line before stopping once more at the mention of the Nords.

"The Nords tell tales of Dragonborn heroes who were great dragonslayers, able to steal the power of the dragons they killed."

Moving forward again, she flipped to the end and skimmed through the book's conclusion.

"I leave you with what is known as "The Prophecy of the Dragonborn." It is often said to have originated in an Elder Scroll, although it is sometimes also attributed to the ancient Akaviri. Many have attempted to decipher it, and many have also believed that its omens had been fulfilled and that the advent of the "Last Dragonborn" was at hand. I make no claims as an interpreter of prophecy, but it does suggest that the true significance of Akatosh's gift to mortalkind has yet to be fully understood."

What followed was written apart from the rest in a sprawling script that lent it an air of mystery and romance.

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world,
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped,
When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls,
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

Sandor and Farengar were both looking at her intently as she finished and with a sigh she closed the book again and set it on the court wizard's desk.

"I don't understand. How can I be this...Dragonborn? I'm not even a Nord."

Farengar waved her comment away dismissively and began to rummage through the piles of parchment on his desk. "Akatosh sees us all as his children, regardless of race. The last Dragonborn, Martin Septim, was an Imperial. You are a Breton woman. It makes no difference. Dragon blood is dragon blood."

"Do you believe this?" she asked incredulously, looking to Sandor.

He looked a bit uncomfortable, and finally, he shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice, girl. I grew up with the stories of the Dragonborn same as every Nord lad, and I saw what happened when we killed that dragon. For the gods' sakes, Daenerys, it just burned itself...into you. As much I may wish I was just losing my mind, I saw it, and then you...you shouted. You said something and I couldn't understand it, but by the Divines, I could feel it. Like it or no, girl, it seems that the Dovahkiin is no more a legend than those beasts themselves."

She let his words sink in for a moment. Though nothing seemed to make sense anymore, at least the legend of the Dragonborn was an explanation of some sort. Unbelievable as the answers were, they were answers.

"Can you read this?" Farengar asked suddenly, shoving the Dragonstone that they had recovered into her hands.

She took it and studied it for a moment, eyes narrowed in concentration. The symbols were foreign, and yet, familiar, and she found that though she couldn't make sense of them, their meaning was clear. Here lie our fallen lords, until power of Alduin revives. Her heart hammered in her chest as the words echoed through her mind and she swallowed thickly, evading the question. "I've seen these somewhere before..."

"That's the stone we found in the barrow," Sandor remarked rather unhelpfully from the corner.

Ignoring him, Farengar nodded, arms crossed over his chest. "I should say so. If absorbing that dragon's soul made it possible for you to shout without any sort of training, then you've learned what we historians refer to as a word of power."

"A word of power?" Dany replied incredulously.

The wizard nodded again. "Fragments of the dragon language hidden away in the last age of the dragons. One can be trained to wield their language as Ulfric Stormcloak was, but few can simply read the language and master it as you have."

The faint memory that had been prickling at the back of her mind since waking after the attack at the watchtower leapt to the forefront with sudden urgency and Dany couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips. Both men jerked toward her involuntarily, but she waved them away.

"Of course. There was...a...wall of sorts, in the barrow where we found the Dragonstone. Even through the door to the chamber where it was I could hear it...whispering...calling to me. And when I neared it, I...understood. Suddenly I knew something that I hadn't before, but I couldn't hold onto it, not until..."

And then, legend or no, she realized that her fate was inescapable. In Solitude, the Snow Tower lie sundered, kingless, bleeding in the midst of the civil war. The dragons had returned, and with them, the last Dragonborn.

Trying to steady her breathing, she focused on a piece of parchment that lay solitary in the center of the wizard's desk. Parting her lips, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fus..." And as she watched, it began to move. First, a flutter, and then, a low rumble began to shake the keep, rattling the walls and causing the earth to tremble.

Farengar let out a cry of alarm, Sandor drew his sword, and as they looked about, the rumble began to shift, becoming the voice of many men, with a power that had long since been dormant. Together, they spoke.

"Do...vah...kiin!"