Daenerys I

Daenerys woke with the first light of dawn, as she had every morning since her arrival in Meereen. The pale, golden sunlight filtered through the ornate windows, casting long shadows across the room. The warmth of the sun contrasted sharply with the cold she had felt within her for so long. Daario lay beside her, his presence familiar yet distant. He slept soundly, sprawled across the bed, but her thoughts had long drifted away from him. She glanced at him briefly but did not linger, her mind already far from the comfort he offered.

With quiet determination, Daenerys rose from the bed and began to dress. She no longer needed help; she preferred the solitude of these moments, the stillness before the world demanded everything of her. As she pulled on her gown, a garment of deep violet trimmed with gold, she caught her reflection in the polished mirror. The woman who stared back was not the girl she had once been. That girl—frightened, naive—had been left behind long ago, burned to ashes on the pyre with Drogo, where her innocence had died with him.

Her silver hair, once wild and untamed, now fell in intricate braids, a symbol of her growth and the strength she had claimed. Her violet eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now reflected the hard-won wisdom of years spent in battle and conquest. The Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains. The titles meant everything, and nothing. The weight of them was a constant presence on her shoulders, but she wore them proudly. She had earned them with blood and fire.

Six years had passed since that fateful night on the Dothraki Sea when she had walked into the flames, and she had never looked back. The fire had forged her, and Meereen had become her crucible. She had ruled the city for nearly five years now, and though it had become her home, it still amazed her in its grandeur. The towering pyramids, the sprawling markets, the people—free now because of her—who filled the streets with hope and life. She had done that. She had brought freedom to the Slaver's Bay now named the Bay of Dragons, and yet, there were still days when it felt like the battle was never truly over.

As she walked through the halls of her palace, her footsteps echoing against the cool marble floors, she marveled at the beauty of Meereen. It was a city born of contradictions—wealth and poverty, grandeur and ruin, a place where her vision of the world clashed with the stubborn remnants of the past. Every morning as she walked these halls, she was reminded of the journey that had brought her here. From the girl sold as a bride to the Khal, to the queen who had crossed Essos not with a great army but with three dragons and a dream. She had freed the Unsullied in Astapor, razed the slave markets of Yunkai, and taken Meereen by force, but she had stayed for something more than conquest. She had stayed to rule, to build something lasting. And though it had been difficult—far more difficult than she had ever imagined—she had succeeded.

But the dream of Meereen was not enough. She knew that now. As much as she loved this city, as much as she had given her heart to its people, her destiny lay elsewhere. Across the Narrow Sea, the Iron Throne awaited, and with it, the promise of her birthright. Westeros. The name still stirred something deep within her, a longing she had tried to suppress but could no longer deny.

She paused in the grand hall, gazing out at the rising sun as it bathed the city in a soft, golden light. The winds from the east were warm, carrying the scent of the sea, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe in the peacefulness of it all. But peace was fleeting. She knew that better than most.

Daario had once told her she was too restless for peace, that she was born to conquer, not to rule. Perhaps he was right, but it wasn't just a lust for conquest that drove her. It was justice, it was the need to create a better world than the one she had inherited. A world free of tyrants, of chains, of the oppression that had marked her entire life. That was what had kept her here in Meereen for so long—the desire to build a new kind of rule, a rule where she was not feared but loved.

But even as she tried to build, the pull of the Iron Throne grew stronger. The letters from Tyrion had been a constant reminder of the war that was yet to come. She had been patient—far more patient than anyone had expected—but her dragons grew restless, and so did she. The time for caution was ending. Soon, she would have to act.

Daenerys touched the silver chain around her neck, a gift from Missandei, who had remained her most trusted confidante. "The world will know the strength of the dragon once more," Missandei had said when she had fastened it around Daenerys' throat. The words echoed in Daenerys' mind now as she thought of the world beyond Meereen.

Soon, very soon, the world would indeed feel the fire of the dragon again. And this time, she would not stop until the Iron Throne was hers. But for now, she would wait—just a little longer. Because the greatest victories were not born of impulse, but of careful, deliberate action.

Daenerys swept into her council chamber, the train of her gown trailing behind her as her presence filled the room. Barristan Selmy and Varys were already deep in conversation, their hushed voices cutting off the moment they noticed her arrival. The tension in the air was palpable, but Daenerys wore a calm, almost playful expression as she approached the table.

"Not starting without me, I hope," she said, her voice light, though her eyes held a sharp edge. She moved gracefully to her seat at the head of the table, the seat reserved for the Queen of Meereen.

Varys, ever the picture of deference, bowed his head slightly. "Of course not, Your Grace," he replied smoothly, his hands folded neatly in front of him. There was always an air of mystery to the Spider, but Daenerys had grown accustomed to it. She had learned to trust him—up to a point.

Barristan Selmy, her most loyal and trusted knight, offered her a small nod of respect. His weathered face was calm, but Daenerys could sense the weight of the news he carried. "We were just discussing the latest developments from Westeros, Your Grace," he said, his deep voice steady, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Daenerys raised an eyebrow, her interest piqued. Westeros. The word itself was a trigger, sending a pulse of energy through her. "What news?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, her hands resting on the cool marble of the table.

Varys exchanged a brief glance with Barristan before he spoke. "King Tommen has announced the Queen is expecting twins. They are solidifying their hold on the throne, Your Grace. The Lannisters have always been skilled at securing their legacy." His tone was careful, measured, but Daenerys could hear the underlying tension. The Lannisters were a formidable enemy, and they were fortifying their position.

Daenerys sat back in her chair, her fingers drumming lightly against the armrest as she processed the news. "Tommen was never a real threat, it's Tywin we need to worry about." she mused, her voice low. Her gaze shifted to Barristan, the knight who had once served her father, who had seen the fall of House Targaryen firsthand. He had warned her many times of the ruthlessness of the Lannisters, of the blood that stained their rise to power.

"They will not give up the throne easily," Barristan said, his voice heavy with the weight of years spent watching the game of thrones unfold. He stood tall, his weathered face lined with concern, though his eyes still held the fierce loyalty of a man sworn to protect his queen. "Those twins are not just heirs, Your Grace. To Tywin Lannister, they are nothing more than opportunity. They are the key to solidifying his power, to ensuring that his legacy endures long after he's gone."

Daenerys's gaze darkened, her hands resting on the cool surface of the council table as she leaned forward, listening intently. Barristan's words carried the sharp edge of truth. She knew Tywin's reputation well—ruthless, calculating, a man who always played the long game. The birth of these twins was not just a family matter; it was a political move, a strategic reinforcement of the Lannisters' claim to the Iron Throne.

"He's not just thinking about his children, or even his grandchildren," Barristan continued, his voice grave. "To Tywin, this is about more than bloodlines. This is about control. Those twins will cement his hold on the throne, make sure that everything keeps ticking over exactly the way he wants after he's gone. He's built an empire, and he will not just walk away from that."

Daenerys stood up, pacing the length of the chamber, her thoughts racing. She had always known the Lannisters were not an enemy to be taken lightly. They had ruled Westeros with an iron grip for too long, shaping the realm's fate to suit their ambitions. But hearing it laid out so plainly—this was no ordinary birth. It was a move in Tywin's endless quest for dominance.

Varys, standing by the fire, nodded slightly. "Tywin Lannister thinks in terms of dynasties, Your Grace. He doesn't care about the throne for the sake of power itself—he cares about power for what it can build. For him, the Iron Throne is a tool, a means to create a world that revolves around the Lannisters. It's why he pushed so hard for Cersei to marry Robert Baratheon and why he now clings to Tommen's reign. The twins will only deepen his influence."

"But no dynasty lasts forever," she said, her voice rising with conviction. "The Targaryens once ruled with fire and blood, and we were brought low. The Lannisters will fall the same way. Tywin may think he can control the future through his children and grandchildren, but the future belongs to those who will rise, not those who cling to the past."

Barristan watched her, pride gleaming faintly in his eyes. "That is the truth, Your Grace. No matter how carefully Tywin plans, no matter how strong he believes his house to be, there are forces beyond his control. You are one of those forces."

Daenerys stopped pacing and faced her advisors, her face set with determination. "Tywin Lannister may think he can shape the realm to his will, but he has not faced me yet. I am not just another name to be written in his history. I am the last Targaryen, and I will take back what is mine."

Varys inclined his head, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. "Your dragons, Your Grace, are the greatest wild card in this game. The Lannisters may have secured their legacy with these children, but they do not have dragons. That is something they cannot anticipate, nor can they defend against it."

Daenerys smiled, the firelight casting a fierce glow across her face, igniting her eyes with a look both determined and dangerous. "Then let them clutch their legacies tightly, dreaming of a dynasty that will span the ages. Let Tywin think he can build a world where the Lannisters rule unchallenged. By the time I am finished, there will be no legacy left for them to inherit."

She moved to the window, her gaze sweeping over Meereen—the city that had become her stronghold and training ground, but only a stepping stone toward her ultimate goal. Beyond the vast desert, beyond the rolling waves of the Narrow Sea, lay Westeros. The true prize. Her birthright. The land where her ancestors once ruled and where she intended to rule again. The Iron Throne wasn't just a symbol of power; it was a promise to reclaim her family's legacy and a vow to restore justice to a fractured realm.

"I will return to Westeros," she said softly, her voice edged with steel, each word a vow. "And I will take what is mine by fire and blood. Tywin Lannister cannot stop what's coming."

Varys stepped forward, his expression as enigmatic as ever. "There is more, Your Grace. A letter arrived just this morning from Lord Tyrion. He reports progress with Lord Robb Stark. They are willing to meet with you."

Daenerys looked sharply at him, her eyes alight with a mix of hope and challenge. "You mean…"

"It's time, Your Grace," Barristan confirmed, his own voice filled with quiet conviction.

Her heart beat faster at the thought. Tyrion had worked tirelessly to open a path to the North, a land loyal to no one, especially not to a Lannister or Targaryen—but Tyrion's message hinted at a change. "Does he say anything else?"

Varys shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. His letter was vague. He says the Starks have terms, but they're willing to speak only in person. He believes their loyalty is within reach, if we can meet their conditions."

Daenerys took in the words, imagining the wolf banner of the North allied with her own dragons, their forces combining strength for a reckoning that could finally reclaim her homeland. Her voice softened, and she glanced back to her council. "Then we make preparations. If the Starks are ready to listen, we must be ready to answer."

Turning back to the window, Daenerys let her gaze sweep over the vast, sprawling city of Meereen, bathed in the soft amber light of dawn. Every street, every building bore the marks of her fight for justice—a city liberated from the chains of cruelty and bloodshed, its people free to walk unburdened, its walls strong and towering as if honoring her unyielding resolve. This place had been her proving ground, the crucible that had forged her into a queen.

But beyond the glittering domes of Meereen lay her true destiny. Across the churning sea waited a kingdom held captive by the very forces that had torn her family from power, and a throne—her throne—awaiting its rightful queen. For years, she had dreamed of it, envisioned the Iron Throne, cold yet gleaming, under her touch. Now that dream no longer felt distant; it felt inevitable. She could almost feel the cool metal beneath her hands and hear the whisper of Westeros calling her home.

"It's time to go home," she said, her voice barely more than a breath, yet filled with a promise that resounded through the quiet chamber.

Barristan and Varys exchanged glances, knowing the weight of that word, home. For Daenerys, it was more than a place—it was a promise, a destiny she would fulfill not just for herself, but for all those who had been trampled, silenced, and broken by the power-hungry forces of Westeros.

"Grey Worm," Daenerys called, her voice echoing through the hall with quiet authority. "Prepare the Unsullied to move. And Daario, gather the shipmasters—inform them that we sail by week's end, no later. Tell my bloodriders to ready themselves as well; they may hesitate at the thought of crossing open water, but we don't have the luxury of doubt." Her tone softened, almost as if addressing them directly. "Remind them that the blood of the dragon rides with them."

Grey Worm gave a firm nod, his unflinching loyalty clear in his gaze as he strode out, already planning the swift mobilisation of the Unsullied. Daario, with his usual roguish grin, inclined his head and headed out to the docks. The preparations would be quick and relentless.

When the chamber doors closed behind her advisors, Daenerys moved back to the head of the table, her fingertips tracing the carved edges of the dark wood. She settled into her seat, her gaze sharp as it shifted from one face to the next. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across her features, deepening her resolve as she spoke. "Tell me—what do we know of Westeros beyond the Northerners' intentions? Where do the others stand in this struggle?"

Barristan spoke first, his tone grave. "It is a tangled web, Your Grace. The Iron Islands, led by House Greyjoy, have been weakened by a power struggle. Yara Greyjoy commands her fleet and is formidable, but her claim is contested by her uncle, Euron. If you were to pledge your support to her after claiming the throne, it could cement her allegiance. However, Euron is cunning and unpredictable; should he gain control, he would make a dangerous enemy, aligning himself with whomever served his own ambitions."

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, already envisioning the Greyjoy fleet, the ironborn ships slicing through the waters like daggers. The Ironborn's loyalty, however fleeting, could be a powerful asset. "An alliance with Yara could be of great value," she agreed, considering the political complexity of such an allegiance.

Varys, standing by the firelight, nodded but added with caution. "It will not be easy to earn Yara's loyalty. Her brother, Theon, was executed by Lord Stark for his crimes against the North, a wound that has not yet healed. Yara may resist any bond with House Stark. Winning her over would require significant assurances and perhaps the offer of vengeance against those who betrayed her family."

Daenerys tapped her fingers on the table, eyes dark with contemplation. "If we can promise her security and the strength to defend her claim, Yara may yet prove loyal. Write to her. I want to know what she would ask for in return for an alliance."

Varys inclined his head in agreement, and Barristan continued. "House Martell has already pledged themselves to you. Trystane Martell leads in title, though his uncle Oberyn is the true force within House Martell. His resentment for House Lannister—especially for Tywin—is widely known. His hatred is fierce, and his loyalty should remain strong."

Daenerys's gaze sharpened. "What of Myrcella Baratheon? She is married to Trystane, is she not? I want no lingering Lannister ties to weaken our position."

Varys nodded. "Indeed, Your Grace. The Princess Myrcella, now Trystane's wife, bore him a daughter last year. She is bound to her husband and child, and her loyalty, therefore, should be secured. It would take a lot for her to abandon them and return home; Oberyn would have ensured as much."

Daenerys absorbed the information with a growing sense of control, her fingers laced together as she thought through Oberyn's promise of support. "Write to Oberyn as well," she commanded. "Assure him that his losses will be avenged when I take the throne. His vengeance will find justice, and House Martell will have their satisfaction."

Barristan nodded and continued. "Then there are Houses Tully and Arryn. They have long followed the lead of the Starks and will likely align with Robb Stark's wishes."

Varys offered a knowing look. "Edmure Tully is a man of little strength and would defer to his nephew. He will submit rather than risk challenge. As for House Arryn, Robin has come of age but remains… limited in judgment. His mother, Lady Lysa, still controls the Eyrie. Her loyalty is tentative; she may seek to avoid involvement altogether. But her own history with House Stark may influence her. A gentle nudge should bring her to our side."

Daenerys's eyes glinted as she nodded, already formulating plans. To secure the loyalty of the Vale would tighten her grip on the eastern borders of Westeros. With the Riverlands, the Vale, and the North united, she would surround the Lannister forces in King's Landing from all sides.

"Lord Robin remains unwed, correct?" Barristan suggested delicately. "If you could assist with finding the right match, his loyalty could become quite dependable."

"Exactly," Daenerys said, a glint of strategy in her gaze. "Arrange to reach out to Lady Lysa. Let her know that in joining my cause, the Vale would find stability, not chaos."

As her advisors moved to carry out her orders, Varys added another consideration. "The Tyrells, naturally, remain aligned with the Crown. With Margaery as Tommen's queen, their alliance stands firm. The Reach, therefore, remains loyal to King Tommen."

Daenerys's mouth hardened. "And what of House Baratheon? What of Stannis?"

Barristan's expression grew grim. "House Baratheon remains divided. Stannis has lost much of his power and hides, waiting for a chance to strike. But he is resolute and will not easily surrender his claim. While Tommen controls a portion of the Stormlands, Stannis's forces still hide within the mountains, biding their time. Eventually, we will face him as well."

"Then so be it," Daenerys replied, her voice filled with finality. "Stannis Baratheon clings to a shadow, and even shadows cannot stand against fire and blood. Let him come if he dares."

The room fell silent as Daenerys's gaze swept over her council, the weight of her purpose burning within her. She had freed cities, toppled tyrants, and built an army ready to reclaim her home. She had seen betrayal and unwavering loyalty; she would need both wisdom and ferocity to navigate the trials before her. But one thing remained unwavering within her—the Iron Throne would be hers. And those who stood in her way would soon know the strength of her fire.

"Send word to each and every one of them," Daenerys commanded, her gaze fierce and unwavering. "Reach out to every house, every lord, and every ally who might yet be swayed to our side. Offer them the promise of justice, security, or vengeance—whatever speaks to their hearts, whatever they desire most. Let them see what loyalty to me will bring."

She paused, her hand brushing the cool, carved wood of the table, fingers drumming as she weighed her next words carefully. "But," she continued, her voice low and steely, "do not extend an invitation until you are absolutely certain. Study their responses. Learn who whispers of hesitation, who speaks with true resolve, and who seems ready to bend the knee. Only when we have reason to trust their intentions, when every hesitation has been examined—only then, and no sooner, will we invite them to Dragonstone to meet me in person."

Daenerys's gaze flickered with the glimmer of firelight as she lifted her chin, her tone fierce and resolute. "When they come, they will witness my strength, my resolve, and they will know that my blood is true. I will not be just another claimant. Like Aegon before me, I will be the flame that cannot be extinguished, and I will take what is mine. Westeros will remember the Targaryen legacy."

The quiet confidence in her voice left her advisors still, each feeling the weight of her words as they resonated through the chamber. Daenerys was no longer just the young girl who had been exiled and cast aside—she was a queen, a conqueror poised to reclaim her birthright. Those who joined her would find their place in her new world, and those who resisted would learn what it meant to defy the blood of the dragon.