The Serpent and the Storm

by FalconEcosse

Summary:

Victoria Potter walked to her death in the Forbidden Forest, embracing the end with open arms. She had given everything—her love, her loyalty, her very soul—only to be used, betrayed, and discarded by those she had once called friends and family. The weight of prophecy, of expectation, had been a burden too heavy to bear alone. In the end, there was nothing left for her but the quiet promise of oblivion.

But death was not the end.

Visenya Targaryen opened her eyes to the crash of a storm and the warmth of her twin sister by her side. From the moment of her birth, her life was shaped by exile, fleeing the remnants of a shattered dynasty, a lost throne, and a history soaked in fire and blood. Yet, unlike the lonely path she had once walked, she was no longer alone.

Bound by love, magic, and the weight of destiny, Visenya and Daenerys carve their own path through the world, two dragons rising from the ashes of their past. They will forge their own future—one not dictated by madness, vengeance, or men who believe they can control them.

Let the world burn before they are ever caged again.

Chapter 1

Summary:

A storm of fire begins

Notes:

Here we go! Just the brain worm that has been rattling about and demanding I write it!

So for Westeros it is mainly going to follow canon events but Essos is going to be slightly different, just with Visenya being there and balancing Daenerys/giving other ideas or plans.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

I

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The morning sun cast a warm glow over the garden of Illyrio’s manse, illuminating the lush greenery and the high stone walls that shielded it from the bustling streets of Pentos. The rhythmic sound of a blade slicing through the air filled the enclosed space as Visenya Targaryen moved through her sword forms, her body fluid and controlled. The steel in her grip gleamed under the sunlight, each motion practiced, each strike purposeful. Each swing of her blade carved through the air with effortless grace, the weight of the weapon an extension of her own body.

Illyrio Mopatis had spared no expense in hiring skilled instructors for her, just as he whispered honeyed words into Viserys’ ears to keep the would-be king under his influence. Visenya knew the game he played. He sought to bind her to him, to make her pliable, an asset in the grand scheme of power. She played along, accepting the lessons, learning what she could. But she trained not for Illyrio’s benefit, nor for the dream of the Iron Throne that Viserys so feverishly clung to. She trained to protect herself. More importantly, she trained to protect Daenerys.

Nearby, her twin sister watched her in quiet admiration, seated gracefully on a stone bench beneath the shade of a lemon tree. The two of them were unmistakable as Targaryens—silvery-white hair cascading down their backs, violet eyes like pools of amethysts catching the light. They were the last of their House, the last dragons, or so they had been told. But to Visenya, Daenerys was more than a remnant of a fallen dynasty—she was her heart, her anchor, the reason she pushed herself harder every day.

Visenya’s breathing was steady, controlled, though a sheen of sweat coated her brow. She paused, exhaling slowly, the weight of the sword a familiar comfort in her grip. She rolled her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness that had settled in her muscles after an hour of exertion. When she turned her gaze toward Daenerys, she found her sister smiling softly, eyes bright with quiet pride.

“How long have you been watching?” Visenya asked, lowering her blade.

“Long enough,” Daenerys replied, amusement in her voice. “You move like a dancer. I think you would impress even the finest of Braavosi swordmasters.”

Visenya let out a small chuckle, sheathing her blade. “Perhaps. But my aim isn’t to impress. It’s to survive.”

A shadow passed over Daenerys’ face, the weight of their reality settling between them like an unspoken truth. They had lived in exile their entire lives, fleeing from city to city, always at the mercy of others. Viserys dreamt of reclaiming the throne, but Visenya had long since realized that dream was little more than a fool’s fancy unless they had the means to seize it for themselves.

Yet despite the hardships, despite the games played around them by men like Illyrio, there was something in this life that she cherished above all else—her sister.

In her past life, she had been alone, always set apart, a tool for others to use and discard. She had fought, bled, and sacrificed everything for a world that only ever saw her as a weapon. But here, in this world of fire and blood, she had Daenerys. And for her, Visenya would do anything.

“Come,” she said, extending a hand toward her twin. “Let’s spar.”

Daenerys hesitated. “You know I’m no warrior.”

“No, but you are my sister. And I would see you strong.”

Daenerys sighed, glancing down at her own hands, soft and uncalloused compared to Visenya’s. “You always say that.”

“And I will keep saying it until you believe it,” Visenya said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “A dragon must have claws.”

A moment passed, and then Daenerys reached for the offered hand, allowing Visenya to pull her to her feet. Together, they stood, twin dragons beneath the Pentoshi sun, preparing for whatever the future might bring. Visenya handed Daenerys a wooden practice sword from the rack by the garden’s edge, adjusting her sister’s grip with careful patience.

Daenerys attempted a clumsy swing, and Visenya dodged effortlessly. “Too stiff,” she said. “Your body must flow with the motion, not resist it.” She stepped behind her sister, placing her hands over Daenerys’ own, guiding her through the motion. “Like this.”

Daenerys followed the movement, adjusting her stance. Her second strike was smoother, though not yet refined. Still, progress.

Visenya grinned. “Better.”

“You’re enjoying this,” Daenerys accused, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“Maybe a little,” Visenya admitted, stepping back to let her sister try again. “One day, you’ll thank me.”

Daenerys sighed but didn’t lower the practice sword. She tried again. And again. And with each strike, Visenya saw a flicker of determination in her sister’s eyes, a spark of something deeper.

And that was enough.

The clashing of wooden swords echoed through the garden, punctuated by soft grunts and the occasional hiss of frustration. Visenya moved effortlessly, correcting Daenerys' stance with a gentle touch to her shoulder, fingers lingering in reassurance, or a feather-light nudge to her wrist. They had been practicing for a while now, the sun rising higher above them, but Visenya remained patient. She had no illusions that Daenerys would ever become a warrior, nor did she expect her to. What mattered was that if the worst were to happen—if Visenya was not there—Daenerys would not be entirely defenseless.

"Keep your feet planted," Visenya instructed, stepping closer to adjust her sister’s grip. Her touch was warm, steady, a silent promise of protection. "You're still too rigid. You need to move with the blade, not against it."

Daenerys sighed but followed the instruction, shifting her stance and trying again. Visenya allowed their wooden swords to lock, testing Daenerys' resistance. She pushed forward slightly, forcing Daenerys to either yield or push back. To her satisfaction, Daenerys did the latter, determination flashing in her violet eyes as she pressed forward with all her strength. A flicker of pride swelled in Visenya’s chest, and without thinking, she reached up and gently cupped the back of Daenerys’ head, her thumb brushing over her temple in silent encouragement.

"Better," Visenya murmured approvingly, her lips curving into a small, affectionate smile. "Again."

The two of them continued, the exercise turning into a familiar rhythm, a dance of trust and unspoken understanding. Daenerys, for all her protests about never being a swordswoman, found enjoyment in the practice. It was not just the training itself, but the quiet moments between them, the way Visenya's presence always felt like an unshakable constant. As much as she was the elder twin, Daenerys had always been the one protected, the one sheltered beneath the fierce love Visenya carried for her like armor.

Between bouts, Visenya would occasionally rest her hand on Daenerys' shoulder, massaging the tension there or brushing a loose strand of silver hair away from her sister’s face. Daenerys would huff at her ministrations but never truly protested, her fondness for Visenya’s warmth evident in the way she leaned slightly into the touches.

"You're still thinking too much," Visenya teased as she sidestepped a slow swing. "Your instincts are better than you give yourself credit for. Trust them. Trust yourself."

Daenerys huffed but did not argue. Instead, she tried again, and this time, Visenya let their blades clash and linger, her grip steady but never forceful, testing Daenerys’ growing confidence. A small moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by their steady breaths and the distant hum of the city beyond the garden walls.

"You won't always be here to guide me, will you?" Daenerys asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Visenya stilled for a moment before slowly lowering her sword. She reached out, tenderly brushing a stray strand of silver hair from Daenerys' face, her fingers gliding over her cheek in an unspoken vow. She let her hand settle there, the touch lingering, her thumb brushing in slow, comforting strokes along Daenerys’ jawline.

"I will always be here," Visenya promised, her voice softer now, meant only for her twin. "One way or another. But if I cannot be by your side, I need to know that you can stand on your own."

Daenerys nodded, pressing her lips together as she absorbed her sister’s words. Then, after a breath, she raised her wooden sword again, her hands curling around the hilt with newfound determination.

Visenya smiled and took a step closer, pressing their brows together briefly, a silent affirmation of their bond.

"Again," Daenerys said, her voice steadier this time.

Visenya grinned, stepping back into position. "That’s my dragon." She reached out, squeezing Daenerys’ wrist in a rare moment of affection before lifting her sword. "Now, let’s see if you can actually land a hit this time."

The session continued, their movements slow but sure, neither willing to call an end to the moment just yet. Visenya corrected Daenerys when necessary, but each time her sister adapted, the flicker of satisfaction in her gaze made it clear that she was taking each lesson to heart. When Daenerys finally landed a strike—not perfect, but firm—Visenya let out a genuine laugh, full of warmth and pride.

"Well done, my dragon," she murmured, reaching out to clasp Daenerys' forearm in the way warriors did. Daenerys, surprised but pleased, returned the gesture.

The sun had climbed high above them, and the heat was beginning to settle in thick waves. Reluctantly, Visenya lowered her wooden sword, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow. "I think that’s enough for today," she said, her voice softer now, almost reluctant to let the moment end.

Daenerys, still catching her breath, nodded before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Visenya in a tight, warm embrace. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice muffled against her sister’s shoulder.

Visenya held her close, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head. "Always, sweet one. Always."

The midday sun hung high overhead as Visenya and Daenerys made their way back inside the cool confines of Illyrio’s manse. The sparring session had left them both glistening with sweat, their muscles pleasantly sore from the exertion. Despite the intensity of the training, neither had rushed to end it, savoring the rare moment of companionship beyond the expectations placed upon them.

Stepping through the archway into their private chambers, Visenya wasted no time in making her way toward the bath. The bathing chamber was lavish, a sunken pool carved into the marble floor, its water heated from below by unseen means. Steam curled lazily from the surface, filling the air with a comforting warmth. The scent of lavender and jasmine oils lingered, no doubt placed there by the attendants to ensure the experience was as indulgent as possible. The soft flickering of candlelight against the polished marble cast the space in a golden glow, making it feel almost otherworldly in its luxury.

Daenerys let out a soft sigh as she reached for the laces of her dress, fingers moving with ease as she undid them. "I think you enjoy exhausting me," she murmured, casting her twin a playful glance, her lips quirking upward despite her words.

Visenya smirked as she pulled her own tunic over her head, her pale skin glistening with the remnants of sweat. "If I didn’t, who else would? You know you’ll never hear the end of it if you slack off."

Daenerys rolled her eyes but smiled, shaking her head as she let the fabric pool around her ankles before stepping free. With an ease that spoke of familiarity, the two sisters discarded their garments and descended into the waiting bath, the heated water embracing them both with a sigh of relief. The temperature was just shy of being too hot, the warmth instantly soothing their tired limbs.

Visenya sank into the water first, leaning against the smooth marble edge, letting out a slow breath as the heat seeped into her muscles. Daenerys followed, settling beside her, though the bath was not quite large enough for them to fully stretch out. The space forced them to sit close, their legs brushing beneath the surface, shoulders pressing together. It was a familiarity they had always shared, the closeness of their bond something neither had ever questioned.

Daenerys reached for a small clay jar filled with scented oils, dipping her fingers inside before running them through Visenya’s damp hair. "You push me hard, but you take care of me just as much," she murmured, beginning to work the fragrant oil into her twin’s silver locks.

Visenya hummed at the sensation, closing her eyes for a brief moment. "It’s my duty to make sure you’re strong. But more than that, I’d never see you struggle alone."

Daenerys’ fingers moved with slow, deliberate strokes, massaging the oil into her scalp, smoothing it down the length of Visenya’s hair. The rhythmic motion was soothing, the tension in Visenya’s shoulders ebbing away with each pass of her sister’s hands. Daenerys took her time, carefully combing through the strands with her fingers, ensuring there were no tangles left behind. The act was intimate, one of quiet devotion, and neither of them spoke for a long moment, letting the water lap softly around them.

When Daenerys was finished, Visenya turned, reaching for the soap to do the same for her sister. She lathered it between her palms before gently massaging it into Daenerys’ scalp, her fingers threading through the wet strands with practiced ease. The scent of lavender and citrus filled the air as she worked, her touch firm but careful, tracing slow circles at Daenerys’ temples before moving lower.

Daenerys sighed softly, tilting her head into the touch. "We will always have each other, won’t we?" she asked, her voice quieter now, laced with something more fragile beneath the surface.

Visenya’s hands stilled for a brief moment before she pressed a kiss to the side of Daenerys’ neck. "Always," she promised, the single word carrying the weight of an oath, one that stretched beyond this moment, beyond the warmth of the bath and the comforts of Illyrio’s manse.

She continued her ministrations, sliding her fingers down the length of Daenerys’ hair, letting the water rinse away the soap in smooth rivulets. Then, with unhurried care, she reached for a soft cloth, dipping it into the water before gently trailing it over Daenerys' shoulders, washing away the remnants of sweat and oil. Daenerys mirrored the action, taking another cloth to do the same for Visenya, their movements unhurried, filled with a tenderness they rarely put into words.

Neither of them spoke as they worked, as they ran the warm cloths over each other’s arms, over the curves of their backs, over skin marked with the faintest traces of past hardship. There was comfort in the ritual, in the knowledge that, for now, they were safe. That here, in this moment, they had only each other, and that was enough.

Eventually, when the water had cooled slightly and their skin was flushed from the heat, Visenya leaned back against the marble edge, pulling Daenerys gently with her. The older twin settled between Visenya’s arms, resting her head against her shoulder, her breath steady and even. Visenya held her close, her chin resting lightly atop Daenerys’ head, letting the silence speak for them.

For a while, they simply basked in the warmth, the steady rhythm of their breathing the only sound between them. Visenya ran her fingers lazily through Daenerys’ hair, twirling damp strands between her fingers. Daenerys, in turn, traced absent patterns against Visenya’s forearm beneath the water, an unconscious gesture of comfort.

"When we were children, we used to dream about the kind of lives we would have," Daenerys murmured after a long moment. "Do you remember?"

Visenya smiled, her eyes half-lidded as she recalled those whispered conversations in darkened rooms, away from Viserys’ scrutiny. "I remember you always spoke of home, of Dragonstone. I never truly cared for the place itself… only that we would be together."

Daenerys sighed, turning her face slightly so her cheek rested against Visenya’s collarbone. "Perhaps that was always the most important part."

Visenya pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "It still is."

The water had turned lukewarm, but neither of them moved just yet. They remained in each other’s embrace, wrapped in the comfort of shared history, the unbreakable bond between them stronger than any words could convey.

The warmth of the bath still lingered on their skin as Visenya and Daenerys stepped out, the cool air of the bathing chamber sending a pleasant shiver down their spines. The servants had left fresh linens and clean dresses for them, and as they dried themselves, Visenya reached for Daenerys’ dress first.

"Turn around," she murmured, taking the soft fabric in hand.

Daenerys obeyed, stepping closer as Visenya carefully slid the dress over her sister’s shoulders, smoothing the fabric down her back. The material was fine, embroidered with delicate patterns, a gift from Illyrio meant to enhance Daenerys’ regal bearing. It felt light against her skin, almost too delicate for someone who carried the weight of so many expectations.

Visenya worked in quiet efficiency, fastening the clasps and adjusting the fit. Her fingers moved gently, ensuring each part sat perfectly, a task she had done countless times before. "There," she murmured, taking a step back to admire her work. "Perfect."

Daenerys turned to face her, a small, grateful smile on her lips. "You always take care of me."

Visenya scoffed lightly, shaking her head as she reached for her own dress. "And you always act like you don’t do the same."

Daenerys hummed in response, but instead of stepping away, she took a step closer, gathering the laces of Visenya’s dress in her hands. "Turn around," she said softly.

Visenya arched a brow but obeyed, standing still as Daenerys carefully tightened the laces, her fingers moving with practiced ease. There was an undeniable tenderness in the way she worked, making sure the fit was snug but not uncomfortable. The warmth of her hands lingered against Visenya’s back, a quiet act of care that neither of them needed to voice.

"There," Daenerys murmured, tying off the last lace and smoothing the fabric into place. "Perfect."

Visenya turned to face her, a small, grateful smile touching her lips. "Thank you."

Daenerys brushed a stray lock of hair behind her twin’s ear, a knowing look in her violet eyes. "I’ll be in the library," she said as she walked toward the door. "Will you join me?"

Visenya hesitated. "In a little while."

Daenerys nodded in understanding before slipping through the doorway, leaving Visenya alone in the quiet of their shared chambers.

Visenya followed soon after, though instead of heading straight for the library, she paused in a small alcove just outside its entrance. The space was nestled between the stone walls, lined with cushions and draped in sheer silks that allowed the light from the windows to filter through in soft patterns. It was a place she often found herself retreating to when she needed a moment away from everything.

From within the library, she could hear the faint rustling of pages as Daenerys settled into her reading, likely lost in one of the many histories of Valyria or old Westerosi records that Illyrio had procured for them. But Visenya found her thoughts drifting elsewhere.

She stared out the window, watching the city below, but what she saw was not the bustling streets of Pentos. Instead, her mind wandered further, slipping into memories that did not belong to this world.

She had been someone else once. Another name, another life. Victoria Potter.

The name felt distant now, as if it belonged to a dream rather than something she had truly lived. The memories came and went like fleeting whispers, sometimes sharp and clear, other times fogged and elusive, like a half-remembered tale that faded the moment she tried to grasp it. She could recall the war, the battles, the sacrifices she had made—but sometimes, it felt as if she were recalling another person’s life rather than her own.

She remembered walking to her death, accepting her fate as though it had been inevitable. And yet, there were moments that felt misplaced, as though her mind had sealed away certain parts of her past. There were missing pieces, entire stretches of time that felt distorted, faces blurred, voices faded to little more than murmurs.

There were nights when she woke suddenly, breathless, her heart pounding as if she had been running. Dreams of a castle, of people whose faces she should know, of wands raised in battle and the heat of spellfire flashing through the dark. But the moments passed too quickly, the emotions lingering longer than the memories themselves, leaving only a ghost of something important that she could no longer name.

And yet…

She had awoken here, reborn into fire and blood, into a family that she had never truly known in her first life. A twin sister who loved her unconditionally, who never looked at her as a tool, a savior, or a symbol, but simply as a sister. It was different from the isolation she had once known. Here, she was not alone. Here, she was not merely a weapon forged for war.

Still, the past lingered. She wondered, sometimes, if she had truly left it behind. If those she had fought for, bled for, had moved on without her. If they ever thought of the girl who had died for them. And if they did—did they grieve? Did they curse her for leaving them? Or had she simply faded from their memories, another name whispered only in passing?

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she leaned against the cool stone of the alcove. Whatever the answers were, they were beyond her reach now. This was her life, her second chance. And no matter the ghosts that haunted her, she would not waste it.

She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself before pushing the thoughts aside. Then, with one last glance toward the window, she rose from her seat and made her way toward the library, seeking the quiet presence of her sister.

~~

The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the dining hall as Visenya and Daenerys took their seats at the long wooden table, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the polished surface. They sat side by side, Daenerys nearest to the head of the table where Viserys had already made himself comfortable. Across from them, Illyrio Mopatis, their ever-smiling host, reclined in his seat, his golden rings glinting as he reached for his goblet.

The meal was rich, as always—a luxury afforded to them only because of Illyrio’s hospitality. There were honeyed quails, fresh-baked bread, and fruits brought from distant lands. But despite the abundance, Visenya felt no hunger. There was something in the air tonight, something off.

Viserys had been silent at first, cutting into his meal with an unusual stiffness. But the silence did not last. Soon, he spoke, and the words that spilled from his lips were the same as always—his throne, his kingdom, his right.

"The Usurper grows old and fat on the throne that is mine by birthright," Viserys muttered, tearing a chunk of bread apart between his fingers. His violet eyes burned with something unsteady, something dangerous. "Each day he sits upon it is an insult. The Iron Throne belongs to the dragon, not the stag. And one day, I will return to claim it."

Illyrio chuckled, his voice smooth and measured. "Of course, my prince. The realm has not forgotten the blood of the dragon. Your time will come."

Visenya said nothing, merely watching, feeling the unease curl in her stomach. Viserys had spoken like this before, but tonight there was an edge to his voice, something sharper than usual. Something desperate.

"And when we return," Viserys continued, his gaze shifting to Daenerys, "my dear sister must remember her duty. She will do as she is told."

Daenerys, who had been quiet up until now, looked up from her plate, her brows knitting together. "Of course, brother," she said, though there was confusion in her tone. "I have never done otherwise."

Viserys scoffed, shaking his head. "You say that, but I see the way you let Visenya fill your head with foolish thoughts. Strength, confidence—what use are these things for a girl who must be obedient? A girl who must know her place?"

Visenya stiffened beside her sister, fingers curling subtly against the edge of the table. There was something wrong here. Why was he suddenly speaking of obedience as if it were a chain meant to bind Daenerys? As if she were some pawn to be moved into position?

Daenerys’ eyes flickered with uncertainty, and she turned toward Visenya instinctively, seeking reassurance. Visenya did not move, but she held her sister’s gaze for a brief moment before looking back at their brother.

"She is Targaryen," Visenya said smoothly, her voice calm despite the heat building beneath her skin. "She does not need to be told her place. She already knows it."

Viserys’ expression darkened, his lips curling in irritation. "You speak as if you understand our cause better than I do, dear sister," he said, his tone low and sharp, his fingers tightening around his goblet. "But you forget yourself. You forget who I am."

"No," Visenya replied, meeting his gaze without fear. "I know exactly who you are."

The words acted as a spark to dry tinder. Viserys slammed his goblet onto the table with such force that wine sloshed over the rim, staining the white linen cloth like fresh blood. His chair scraped loudly against the stone floor as he half-rose, his violet eyes blazing with unchecked fury. The madness that always lurked just beneath the surface had clawed its way free, twisting his features into something wild, something unstable.

"I AM THE DRAGON!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the chamber. "I am Viserys of House Targaryen, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you—" he pointed a trembling finger at Visenya, his hand shaking from the force of his rage "—you are nothing more than an exile like the rest of us! You will not speak to me as if we are equals! I am your king!"

Daenerys flinched beside Visenya, her breath catching as she instinctively reached for her sister’s arm, but Visenya did not react, did not so much as blink at Viserys' outburst. She merely watched, cold and calculating, as their brother’s fury spilled forth like an overflowing river.

"You are no king," Visenya murmured, her voice quiet, but cutting through the tension like a blade. "No kingdom bows to you. No banners fly in your name. You sit here in Pentos, feasting on another man's coin, and call yourself a dragon?"

Viserys’ breath hitched, his whole body trembling. For a brief moment, he looked as though he might strike her. His fingers twitched, curling into fists, his face flushed with humiliation and unspent violence. But then, as if suddenly remembering himself, his chest rose and fell in a ragged breath, and he forced a twisted smirk onto his face.

He turned his gaze toward Daenerys instead. "You see how she speaks to me?" he asked, his voice coated with venom. "She poisons your mind with her defiance. I am your brother, Daenerys. Your king. You will obey me."

Daenerys opened her mouth, but no words came. Her fingers curled against her lap, tension lining her frame. Visenya could feel the tremble in her sister’s hand where it rested against her arm, could see the unspoken turmoil in Daenerys’ eyes.

Illyrio cleared his throat then, leaning back in his chair as he swirled his wine lazily, the very picture of someone enjoying a well-rehearsed performance. "My prince," he interjected smoothly, "perhaps it would do you well to enjoy your meal. The matters of thrones and crowns can wait until the morrow, yes?"

Viserys exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching as he forced himself back into his seat. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white, but he nodded stiffly.

"Yes," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "Yes… the dragon must have patience. My time will come. They will all see."

Visenya watched him for a moment longer before turning her attention back to her meal, though her appetite had long since vanished. Beside her, Daenerys lowered her gaze to her plate, her expression tight and unreadable.

The conversation shifted then, turning to less volatile subjects, but the unease in Visenya’s chest remained.

Her brother’s words had been calculated. He was preparing for something. But what?

~

The moon cast a pale glow through the arched windows of their chambers, illuminating the silken sheets and soft cushions that lined their shared space. The evening air was cool against Visenya’s skin as she unfastened the ties of her dress, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders. Daenerys stood nearby, fingers carefully undoing the delicate clasps of her own gown, her movements slower than usual, her mind clearly elsewhere.

The tension from dinner still lingered between them, unspoken but heavy, pressing down on the quiet space they shared. The walls of their chamber, though familiar and safe, felt suffocating under the weight of what had transpired.

"He was just angry," Daenerys murmured at last, breaking the silence. She folded her dress carefully and set it aside before reaching for a nightgown. "You know how he gets when he talks about the throne."

Visenya scoffed softly as she pulled a brush through her silver hair, the bristles gliding through the long strands. "I know how he gets when he doesn’t get his way."

Daenerys hesitated, her gaze flickering toward Visenya’s reflection in the mirror. "He’s our brother, Visenya. We should be loyal to him."

Visenya stilled, her fingers pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, she turned to face her twin. "Loyalty is earned, Dany. Not demanded."

Daenerys bit her lip, pulling her nightgown over her head, her brows furrowing as if she were trying to piece together her own thoughts. "He has nothing else. We are all he has left."

Visenya sighed, setting the brush down before crossing the room to her sister. She took Daenerys' hands in hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. "And what about us? What are we to him? Pawns to be moved? Bargains to be struck?"

Daenerys looked away, her expression troubled. "He’s desperate, Visenya. He believes he’s meant to take back our home. That it’s his destiny."

"Destiny doesn’t excuse madness," Visenya said, voice calm but firm. "And you saw him tonight, didn’t you? The way his eyes burned, the way his voice shook with rage. That wasn’t just frustration, Dany. That was something else."

Daenerys sat on the edge of her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. "Maybe if we show him we support him more, he wouldn’t feel like he has to prove himself all the time."

Visenya exhaled sharply, running a hand down her face before sitting beside her twin. "You don’t really believe that, do you?"

A long silence stretched between them before Daenerys shook her head. "I don’t know," she admitted softly. "Maybe I just don’t want to believe the alternative."

Visenya wrapped an arm around Daenerys, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I understand," she whispered. "But we can’t ignore what’s in front of us. Viserys isn’t just angry. He’s... unraveling. And Illyrio is feeding it."

Daenerys leaned into her sister, resting her head against her shoulder. "Why would Illyrio do that? He claims to want to help us."

Visenya’s gaze darkened, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on Daenerys’ arm. "I don’t know. But I intend to find out."

They sat there for a while, the only sound the rustling of the wind outside. Eventually, Daenerys let out a quiet sigh, shifting to lay down. "I just want to sleep," she murmured. "Forget about all of this, if only for a little while."

Visenya nodded, standing to dim the lanterns before joining her sister in bed. Though two beds stood in the chamber, they had always shared one, a silent comfort that had followed them since childhood. As Daenerys nestled beneath the covers, Visenya slid in beside her, wrapping an arm around her twin as Daenerys did the same. Their bodies fit together easily, a quiet reassurance in the dark.

Daenerys let out a soft breath, her fingers curling gently against Visenya’s wrist. "No matter what happens, we still have each other."

Visenya pressed her forehead lightly against Daenerys’. "Always."

As the minutes stretched on, Daenerys’ breathing slowed, her warmth sinking into Visenya’s own. Their limbs tangled together, the familiarity of their shared bed a reminder that no matter how uncertain the world outside their chamber walls was, here, in this moment, they had each other.

But sleep did not come so easily for Visenya. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts circling like vultures. She thought of Viserys, of the way his rage had crackled like an untamed fire. She thought of Illyrio, the ever-smiling merchant who watched them like pieces on a cyvasse board. 

Visenya tightened her hold around Daenerys, as if anchoring herself to the one thing that made sense in all of this.

Viserys was dangerous, but Illyrio? He was a mystery. And Visenya hated mysteries she couldn’t solve.

Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Pentos, carrying whispers of things yet to come.

~~

The golden light of morning filtered through the tall windows of Illyrio’s manse, warming the stone floors as Visenya and Daenerys sat together breaking their fast. The scent of fresh bread, honeyed fruit, and spiced tea filled the air, though Visenya barely tasted any of it. Her thoughts were occupied with the lingering weight of last night’s conversation, of Daenerys’ quiet distress, and most of all, of Viserys’ unhinged outburst at dinner.

They could not ignore this. She could not ignore this.

As Daenerys picked idly at her plate, her shoulders tense beneath the soft lavender silk of her gown, Visenya made up her mind. No matter how much she despised what her brother was becoming, she knew Daenerys still held on to hope that he could be reasoned with, that they were still a family. And for her sister’s sake, Visenya would try.

"I’m going to speak with him," Visenya said suddenly, setting her cup down with a soft clink. "I need to know what he’s planning."

Daenerys looked up at her, hesitation clear in her violet eyes. "Visenya… you know how he gets. He won’t—"

"He won’t listen," Visenya finished for her, voice wry. "I know. But we are all we have, Dany. If there is even a chance of reasoning with him, I have to try. For you."

Daenerys exhaled softly, her fingers brushing against Visenya’s under the table in silent gratitude. "Be careful."

Visenya offered a small, reassuring smile before rising from her seat. "Always."

She found Viserys in one of the private chambers Illyrio had set aside for him, lounging by the open balcony, a goblet of wine already in hand despite the early hour. He turned slightly as she entered, his expression unreadable, but his grip on the goblet tightened at the sight of her.

"What do you want, sister?" he drawled, swirling the wine in his cup. "Come to tell me how unfit I am again? Or have you realized your place at last?"

Visenya ignored the barb, stepping further into the room. "I want to talk. I want to understand."

Viserys scoffed, turning his back to her as he looked out over the city. "Understand what? That I am the rightful king of Westeros? That our birthright was stolen from us? That I have spent my entire life scraping and bowing to the whims of foreign lords while the Usurper sits fat and content on my throne?" He turned back to face her, his violet eyes sharp and filled with an almost feverish light. "What more is there to understand?"

Visenya inhaled slowly, keeping her voice measured. "I want to know what you are planning, Viserys. For us. You speak of reclaiming the throne, but you tell us nothing. How do you intend to do it? Where do we stand in your plans?"

Viserys laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "You are my sisters. You will do as you are meant to do. What more do you need to know?"

Her patience thinned. "That is not an answer."

His expression darkened. "It is the only answer you need."

Visenya stepped closer, refusing to let him dismiss her. "If you expect our loyalty, Viserys, then you owe us honesty. What are you planning? What deals have you made?"

The moment the words left her lips, she knew she had pressed too hard.

Viserys’ expression twisted, and in an instant, his hand lashed out, the goblet flying from his grip and shattering against the floor between them. "How dare you question me?" he snarled, stepping forward so quickly that she barely had time to react before he was close enough that she could see the wild fury burning in his eyes. "You think you are owed explanations? That you have a say in my war? You are nothing, Visenya! Nothing! It is by my mercy alone that you have a place in the world at all!"

Visenya stood her ground, refusing to flinch, though she felt her nails bite into the flesh of her palms where her fists had clenched. "Daenerys and I are not your pawns, Viserys. We are your sisters. We deserve to know what future you are gambling away on whispers and empty promises."

Viserys’ chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands shaking at his sides. For a moment, she thought he might strike her, but instead, he let out a bitter laugh and turned away, running a hand through his disheveled silver hair. "You think you know better than me," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "You think you’re so clever. But you’ll see, sister. Soon enough, you’ll see."

Visenya watched him, her heart pounding, knowing she would get nothing more from him. Not now.

She turned on her heel and left without another word, but as she stepped out into the corridor, she knew one thing for certain—whatever Viserys was planning, it would bring nothing but ruin.

As she walked away, the echoes of his bitter laughter followed her down the hallway, a haunting reminder that reason was beyond him. Whatever strings Illyrio was pulling, whatever fate Viserys believed he was marching toward, Visenya feared that the only thing waiting for him at the end of his road was madness and ashes.

The morning sun was bright, but it did nothing to chase away the shadow that now clung to her thoughts.

The scent of parchment and ink filled the air as Visenya stepped into the library, the warm glow of lanterns casting flickering light across the shelves of aged tomes and scrolls. The space was quiet except for the occasional flutter of pages turning in the draft from the open window. Daenerys sat curled in one of the cushioned seats near a window, her fingers idly tracing patterns along the spine of a book she had yet to open. The distant look in her violet eyes told Visenya everything she needed to know—she had overheard something.

Daenerys turned at the sound of her footsteps, her gaze flickering over Visenya’s face, searching for answers. Before Visenya could say a word, Daenerys exhaled softly and set the book aside. 

"It went badly, didn’t it?" she murmured.

Visenya sighed, lowering herself onto the seat opposite her sister. "As expected. He refuses to tell us anything. The more I pushed, the more he raged. He’s lost in his delusions, Dany. He truly believes he is a king already, that everything will fall into place simply because he wills it."

Daenerys lowered her gaze, her fingers twisting in her lap. "While you were with him, I overheard Illyrio speaking with some noble. He was telling them to make sure everything was ready for someone's arrival."

Visenya’s posture stiffened. "Did he say who?"

Daenerys shook her head. "No names, only that they were important and that Viserys would soon have what he desired. He spoke as if everything was already set in motion."

Visenya frowned, her mind racing. "Then whatever our brother refuses to tell us, Illyrio already knows. And he's making arrangements."

Daenerys bit her lip. "This isn’t just about Viserys, is it? If Illyrio is making plans, we’re a part of them whether we want to be or not."

Visenya reached across the space between them, gently taking Daenerys’ hand. "Then we need to be ready. We cannot afford to be caught blind in whatever game Illyrio is playing."

Daenerys hesitated, her grip tightening around Visenya’s fingers. "And if we don’t like what we find? If we are the ones being traded away?"

Visenya’s jaw set. "Then we make our own choices. No matter what happens, we will not be pawns."

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken fears. Finally, Daenerys nodded, a flicker of resolve in her eyes. "Then we start watching. We listen. If Illyrio has secrets, we’ll find them."

Visenya squeezed her hand once more before releasing it. "We’ll do it together. Always."

Daenerys nodded, but the tension in her shoulders did not fade. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Illyrio speaks to Viserys as if he is already a king. But he does not treat him like one. He placates him, soothes his temper like one would a spoiled child. And Viserys... he believes him. He believes that Illyrio is his ally, that these gifts and feasts are given freely. But nothing is ever truly free."

Visenya's lips pressed together. "That’s because Illyrio is fattening him up for slaughter."

Daenerys flinched. "Visenya—"

"You know it's true, Dany." Visenya leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the towering shelves of books, as if she might find an answer hidden within the ancient texts. "Illyrio smiles, he flatters, but everything he does is calculated. There is no charity in him. Only investment."

Daenerys exhaled through her nose, rubbing her temples. "And what if we are part of that investment?"

Visenya hated the fear in her voice, hated the way Daenerys looked so small in that moment, weighed down by the invisible chains of their exile. She reached out again, tucking a strand of silvery hair behind Daenerys’ ear. "Then we learn the rules of the game before it can be played against us."

Daenerys looked at her for a long moment before nodding. "And if we find that our brother is making a choice we cannot follow?"

Visenya hesitated, then spoke with quiet certainty. "Then we will make our own path. Together."

The words settled between them like an unspoken vow. No matter what happened, no matter what Illyrio or Viserys planned, they would not be powerless. They would not be chattel to be traded away at the whims of men who did not see them as people but as pieces on a board.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, the two of them stood side by side, watching the city below. Their fate had always been decided for them, but not anymore.

The air in the library felt heavier now, thick with the weight of uncertainty. Visenya leaned against the edge of the table, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched Daenerys, who remained by the window, her fingers resting lightly against the cool glass. The city stretched beyond them, golden in the fading sunlight, a world that was both near and impossibly far from their grasp. The soft rustle of parchment and the scent of aged books filled the space around them, but neither took any comfort in the familiar surroundings.

"We should just leave," Visenya said suddenly, the words slipping out before she had fully formed the thought. "Leave Viserys to his madness and go."

Daenerys turned sharply, her violet eyes widening. "Go where?"

Visenya hesitated, then pushed herself off the table and began pacing, her boots making soft but purposeful sounds against the stone floor. "Anywhere. Essos is vast. There are a hundred places we could go where he would never find us. We could disappear."

Daenerys’ expression softened, but there was sadness there too, a flicker of something deeply rooted, as though she had already thought of the same thing. "And how would we do that? We have no coin of our own. We have no allies, no means to secure passage. Even if we ran, where would we run to?"

Visenya stopped pacing and exhaled sharply, her jaw clenching as she turned back to face her sister. "I know. I know it's not that simple. But I can’t just sit here and watch him drag us toward ruin. He’s blind, Dany. He’s a drowning man who thinks he can still swim. And Illyrio—" her voice tightened with frustration, "—Illyrio is just letting him sink while whispering about ships and armies."

Daenerys looked down, rubbing her arms as if warding off a chill that came from more than just the cooling evening air. "I want to leave too," she admitted softly. "But we have nothing, Visenya. Nothing but each other. And if we run with nothing, what future are we running toward?"

The words settled over them like a cold truth neither could ignore. Visenya knew her sister was right. They had been raised on the promise of a kingdom they had never seen, but in truth, they had nothing. No wealth, no home, only the protection Illyrio saw fit to provide them—protection that felt more like a leash with every passing day. Even if they did flee, they would be left to the mercy of the world, and in a world like theirs, mercy was a rare thing indeed.

Visenya let out a slow breath, her fingers raking through her silver hair, forcing herself to think rationally. "Then we make a plan. We listen. We learn. If there is even a chance to carve out our own path, we take it. I won’t let Viserys' delusions dictate our future."

Daenerys studied her for a long moment, as if weighing the conviction in her words before nodding. "Then we do this together. No matter what happens, we will not be trapped by his choices."

Visenya stepped closer, resting her hands gently on Daenerys’ shoulders, her touch firm but warm. "Never," she promised. "You and I, we decide our fate."

A silence stretched between them, but it was no longer heavy with fear—it was steady, certain. The uncertainty of the future remained, but one thing had been decided. No matter what awaited them, no matter what schemes were unfolding beyond their reach, they would not be passive. They would not simply watch as their futures were determined by men who saw them as pieces to be moved on a board.

Daenerys finally pulled away from the window, stepping into the golden light of the setting sun. "Then we begin now. We listen, we watch, and we make sure that whatever path is set before us… it is one we choose."

Visenya nodded, feeling the same resolve settle into her bones. "Together. Always."

The tension between them did not ease completely, but it had changed. It was no longer a weight pressing down on them but a purpose, a silent vow forged between them. Whatever storm was coming, they would face it side by side. And if the world thought to dictate their fates, then the world would learn that dragons were not so easily tamed.

Chapter 2: II

Summary:

A marriage sale proposed, the dragon does not like to be chained

Notes:

Here we go with the first major canon divergence!

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

II

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The soft glow of the evening sun cast long shadows through the open balcony doors, painting the stone walls of their chamber in hues of amber and crimson. The scent of sea salt and warm spices drifted in from the bustling streets of Pentos below, but within the confines of their quarters, the air was thick with unease.

Visenya and Daenerys sat together near the window, the room quiet save for the distant murmur of voices from the courtyard. Daenerys' fingers traced idle patterns along the embroidery of her gown, her violet eyes distant, as if sensing that something was coming. And she was right.

The doors swung open without warning, the heavy wood groaning as Viserys strode inside, his presence like a sudden gust of wind before a storm. Behind him, Illyrio Mopatis followed at a more measured pace, his silken robes swishing as he moved. His ever-present, calculating smile sat comfortably upon his lips, but Visenya did not miss the glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"Stand," Viserys commanded, his voice carrying that grating mix of authority and impatience that had only grown stronger in recent weeks.

Daenerys obeyed, rising gracefully to her feet. Visenya followed suit, but unlike her sister, she did not lower her gaze or soften her stance. She held herself tall, arms crossed as she regarded her brother with a steely expression. There was something in his demeanor—an excitement, an unhinged triumph barely contained beneath the surface.

"Good news, my dear sisters," Viserys said, stepping further into the room. "Your futures have been decided."

Visenya's muscles tensed, her fingers curling against her sleeves. "By whom?"

Viserys scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "By me, of course. And by the generosity of our esteemed host, who has secured us the alliance that will see my throne restored."

Illyrio’s smile widened as he clasped his hands before him. "A great Khal, a mighty warrior of the Dothraki, has agreed to take Daenerys as his wife. Khal Drogo himself."

Silence filled the room. Visenya felt Daenerys tense beside her, her twin's breath hitching slightly, but she did not speak. Not yet.

Visenya’s jaw tightened. "You would sell her to the Dothraki?"

Viserys turned on her with a sneer. "I would do what is necessary to reclaim what is mine. The Dothraki have never crossed the Narrow Sea, but they will for their Khaleesi. With Drogo’s strength, I will march upon Westeros and take back our home."

Daenerys finally spoke, her voice quieter than Visenya would have liked. "And what if I do not wish it?"

Viserys’ expression darkened, his lips curling in irritation. "You will wish it," he snapped. "You are a princess of House Targaryen. Your duty is to serve your king. To serve me."

Illyrio chuckled smoothly, stepping forward as if to smooth the tension before it could unravel further. "Khal Drogo is a powerful man, my dear girl. He has never been defeated in battle, his warriors are unmatched. He will give you strong sons, and through him, your brother will have the army he needs. It is a most fortunate match."

Visenya’s hands clenched into fists at her sides, barely able to contain her fury. "Fortunate for whom? For you? For my brother? What of Daenerys? What of what she wants?"

Viserys' patience snapped like a frayed rope. "She will do as she is told!"

Daenerys flinched at the sharpness of his tone, but before Visenya could think, she stepped in front of her sister, blocking Viserys' path. "No," she said coldly, her voice unwavering. "She will not."

Viserys blinked, momentarily stunned by her defiance, but then his face twisted with rage. "You dare—"

"Yes, I dare." Visenya stepped forward, forcing him to take a step back. "Daenerys is not yours to trade like a horse, not yours to sell for a crown you will never wear. If you think for a moment that I will stand by and watch you barter her away, you are madder than I thought."

Illyrio let out an amused chuckle, though there was caution in his eyes now. "My dear girl, emotions are expected, but this match is—"

"Decided by men who do not care for my sister beyond what she can give them." Visenya turned her gaze on him, sharp and unyielding. "Khal Drogo does not know her, nor does he care to. This is not a wedding—it is a sale, and I will not let it happen."

Viserys let out a laugh, high-pitched and strained. "You think you have a say? You think you can stand against me?" His eyes glowed with something wild, something dangerous. "I am the dragon!"

Visenya did not flinch. "Then prove it, brother. Burn me where I stand."

With a manic gleam in his eye, Viserys grabbed a nearby oil lantern and hurled it to the floor. The glass shattered, spilling oil across the fine rugs, igniting instantly into a raging inferno. The fire spread rapidly, climbing the walls, swallowing the drapes, and licking at their clothes. Smoke billowed, thick and choking, as the heat intensified.

Illyrio, pale as death, stumbled toward the door before turning and fleeing, shouting for servants to bring water. But the fire raged on, climbing the walls, devouring everything it touched.

Visenya felt the fire consume her, oil splashing onto her arms and legs, yet she felt no pain. The flames danced over her skin but left her untouched. Her clothes blackened and burned away, but her flesh remained unmarred. Across from her, Daenerys gasped, horror-stricken as she saw the fire take her twin. Without thinking, she lunged forward, desperate to help, her hands reaching for Visenya as though she could pull her free. The heat surrounded them both, roaring like a living beast, yet Daenerys barely noticed the way the flames curled around her own skin, licking at her arms and legs, burning away her dress but leaving her untouched. All that mattered was her sister, and as she clutched Visenya’s arm, the fire did not harm her either.

Viserys was not so lucky.

His triumphant laughter turned to shrieks of agony as the fire found him, devouring his tunic, his flesh. He staggered back, clawing at his burning robes, eyes wide with disbelief. "I am the dragon!" he howled, stumbling as the flames consumed him. "I am—"

His screams filled the chamber.

Visenya grabbed Daenerys' hand, pulling her back toward the farthest wall, away from the falling embers and collapsing beams. As they pressed against the stone, something caught Visenya’s eye—a luxurious chest, its ornate design untouched by the flames, as if it had been waiting for them.

Something called to them.

Visenya wrenched the lid open, revealing four large eggs nestled within. The firelight gleamed off their smooth surfaces—black and red, green and bronze, cream and gold, and one as pale as snow, with veins of shimmering silver.

Dragons.

Daenerys stared in wonder, reaching out, her fingers trembling as they brushed over the surface of the eggs. The heat did not touch them, nor did it touch the sisters. It was as if the fire welcomed them, embraced them.

Visenya turned to her twin, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "This is our fate, Dany. Not chains. Not submission. We were never meant to be tamed."

Daenerys met her gaze, her fear melting into something stronger, something undeniable. "We were meant to rise."

The fire roared around them, a living, breathing force of destruction, yet Visenya and Daenerys remained untouched. The heat did not scorch their skin, the flames did not devour their flesh. They sat amidst the inferno, cradling the four eggs that pulsed with warmth in their arms.

Visenya could feel it, the power thrumming beneath the smooth surface of the eggs, a heartbeat that called to her own. The air crackled, not just from the fire, but from something ancient stirring in the heart of the blaze. The fire was no longer just a force of ruin; it was a cradle, a catalyst for something greater.

Daenerys held the black-and-red egg close to her chest, her fingers trembling as she traced the ridges of its shell. "They're alive," she whispered, eyes wide with wonder and reverence. "Visenya... they're alive."

Visenya tightened her grip on the pale, silver-veined egg, feeling the pulse of energy ripple through her palm. "They’re waking," she murmured, voice steady despite the wild chaos surrounding them. "They’re answering the call of the fire. Of our blood."

A sudden crack echoed through the chamber, sharp and clear even over the raging inferno. Daenerys gasped, her hands tightening around the egg as a fine fracture split across its surface. Another crack followed, then another. The other three eggs shuddered in their grasp, hairline fractures spiderwebbing across their shells. The fire pulsed brighter, surging toward the eggs, feeding them, embracing them.

Daenerys looked at Visenya, her breath quickened. "This is real," she whispered. "This is truly happening."

Visenya met her gaze, something fierce and exultant flashing in her violet eyes. Her hands trembled as the first egg shattered in her grasp, fragments of shell crumbling away like charred parchment. A tiny, glistening creature emerged, pale as snow, with silver-lined wings that quivered with its first breaths. It let out a soft, rasping cry before curling against Visenya’s chest, instinctively seeking warmth in the embrace of its mother. Then it lifted its head and looked at her, amber eyes gleaming in the firelight, and Visenya froze.

Recognition struck her like a lightning bolt, a bond rekindling in her very soul, one she had thought lost forever. "Hedwig," she whispered, voice shaking, disbelieving. Yet she knew it was true. Those eyes, so achingly familiar, gazed at her with the same unshakable loyalty she had once known in another life. The ache in her heart that she had carried for so long eased in that moment. She was not imagining it. Hedwig had returned to her, reborn in fire and flesh. The little dragon made a soft, keening sound, nudging against her hand, and Visenya felt something deep inside her settle, a missing piece of herself restored.

Then the others followed.

The green-and-bronze egg cracked apart in Daenerys’s lap, revealing a serpent-like hatchling, its scales shimmering like polished emeralds. It unfurled its tiny wings and hissed softly before nestling into her arm. The cream-and-gold dragon wriggled free of its egg with a high-pitched cry, stretching its damp wings before nuzzling against the crook of Visenya’s arm. Finally, the black-and-red egg burst open, releasing a sleek, fierce creature with glowing ember eyes, its tiny claws digging into Daenerys’s palm as it clung to her, its body warm against her skin.

They were small, fragile, yet filled with the untamed power of something long thought lost to the world. The last of the dragons.

Daenerys cupped the black-and-red dragon against her chest, cradling it like a newborn child. "They're ours, Visenya. The dragons have returned."

Visenya exhaled slowly, still staring into the amber eyes of the snow-white dragon curled against her. She brushed a trembling finger over the ridges of its head, and the hatchling let out a soft, almost familiar sound, a sound that sent a rush of warmth through her. It was no accident. No gift of fate. This was destiny, their birthright reclaimed in fire and blood, and more than that—this was a lost part of her soul, returned to her. The fire surrounding them was no longer a threat, but a promise, the flames whispering of power, of rebirth.

The dragons curled close to them, small but fierce, their breath warm against their skin. They would grow. They would become great. But in this moment, they were new, reborn just as Visenya and Daenerys were.

Visenya looked at Daenerys, her twin, her other half, and saw her own thoughts mirrored in her sister’s eyes. "And we will never be alone again."

Daenerys nodded, her fingers stroking the small black dragon’s spine as she whispered, "Never."

The fire raged on, but now it felt like home.

The heat of the fire still clung to their skin, the scent of smoke and charred wood thick in the air as Visenya and Daenerys held their newborn dragons close. Each sister carried two, their tiny claws gripping into their arms, sharp enough to sting but not deep enough to draw blood. The hatchlings, though small, were already strong, their scaled bodies warm, their wings twitching as they adjusted to their new world.

Visenya’s snow-white dragon, Hedwig reborn, pressed against her chest, its amber eyes watching her with unwavering familiarity. The cream-and-gold hatchling curled against her arm, its tiny head resting against the crook of her elbow. Daenerys held the black-and-red dragon close, its ember-like eyes flickering as it clung to her with surprising strength, while the green-and-bronze hatchling coiled around her wrist, its tail curling possessively as if afraid to be left behind.

"We need to go," Visenya said, urgency lacing her voice. The fire was still raging, smoke swirling around them as embers danced in the air. The roof creaked above, weakened by the inferno, and Visenya knew they had little time before the structure collapsed entirely. "Now."

Daenerys nodded, her grip tightening around her dragons. "Where?"

Visenya scanned the room through the thickening haze before spotting a side door, half-hidden by the falling shadows. "There," she gestured, leading the way.

Moving swiftly, they slipped through the door and into a dimly lit corridor. The air was clearer here, though the scent of burning still lingered. The dragons made small noises, almost trills of curiosity, as they nestled closer against their respective mothers, their sharp claws digging in when the movement became too fast for their small, unsteady limbs.

Visenya’s mind raced as they hurried down the hall, listening for any approaching footsteps. "We can't stay here. Viserys is dead, and Illyrio will turn on us the moment he regains his wits. He was never loyal to us—only to what Viserys could offer him. Now that he has no puppet king, we are nothing but loose ends."

Daenerys swallowed, her expression unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something—acceptance, perhaps even relief. "Then we leave."

Visenya nodded sharply. "We take what we need and disappear before Illyrio can trap us in another cage. If we move quickly, we may be gone before he even realizes."

The thought of what he might do if they hesitated sent an icy shiver through her. Illyrio had always been polite, accommodating even, but Visenya had never trusted him. He was too cunning, too calculating, and she knew better than to believe his generosity was given freely. He was a man who dealt in power, and now that Viserys was gone, that power was gone, too.

Reaching their chambers, they wasted no time. They set their dragons down on the soft bedding, the creatures hissing in protest at being separated even briefly, their wings twitching as though ready to follow. The moment they were released, they scrambled to climb back onto their mothers, clinging with their small, razor-like claws. The sensation was painful, but neither sister pushed them away.

Visenya ignored the ache in her arms and quickly rifled through her belongings, pulling out a set of clothes and tossing another to Daenerys. "Dress quickly. We take only what we can carry."

Daenerys hesitated for only a moment before nodding. As they dressed, the dragons crawled over the bed, curious, sniffing at the fabrics, at each other, at the air itself as if testing this new world they had been born into.

"What about Illyrio’s men?" Daenerys asked as she tied the sash of her robe.

"We avoid them if we can," Visenya said simply, fastening a belt around her waist and slipping a dagger into its sheath. "If we can't, we fight. We may not have an army, but we are not weak. And we have something stronger than they ever will."

She turned to the bed where their dragons now perched, watching them with keen, intelligent eyes. Their presence felt like an unspoken promise, a bond deeper than blood, forged in fire itself.

Daenerys exhaled, reaching for the black-and-red dragon, pulling it close again. It let out a low, rumbling sound as it buried its head against her collarbone, its tiny claws clutching at the fabric of her tunic. "Then we run."

Visenya lifted Hedwig into her arms, the snowy dragon gripping onto her sleeve with tiny, sharp talons. "We run. And we never look back."

As they prepared to leave, Daenerys grabbed a small pouch of coins and a few provisions, shoving them into a bag. "Where will we go?"

"Somewhere Illyrio won’t think to look. Somewhere we can learn, grow stronger," Visenya replied, her mind already whirring with possibilities. "We have dragons, Dany. That makes us dangerous. And the moment Illyrio realizes that, he will try to use us, control us—or kill us. We cannot let that happen."

Daenerys looked down at the green-and-bronze dragon wrapped around her wrist, then back at her sister. "Then we move before he has the chance."

Visenya met her gaze and saw the same fire she had felt burning within herself. They were not pawns, not anymore. Whatever future awaited them, they would carve it with their own hands, not let it be dictated by men who saw them as mere tools.

With their belongings secured and their newborn dragons nestled in a small bag to keep them hidden, Visenya and Daenerys moved swiftly through the darkened corridors of the manse. The roar of the fire behind them masked their footsteps, the scent of smoke thick in the air. Servants and guards rushed in the opposite direction, frantic to stop the inferno consuming the estate, leaving the halls nearly deserted.

Visenya led the way, her senses sharp, her body thrumming with adrenaline. Each shadowed alcove, each open doorway, felt like a potential trap. Daenerys clutched the strap of their bag, her fingers tightening around it protectively. Their dragons shifted within, but they remained still, sensing the need for silence. Their world was fire and smoke, chaos and ruin, and yet the two sisters moved with purpose, their minds aligned on one goal—escape.

As they rounded a corner, they passed a heavy iron door slightly ajar, its intricate carvings marking it as a place of importance. Something about it made Visenya pause. She glanced at Daenerys, then back at the door. "Illyrio's treasure room," she murmured, realization sparking in her eyes.

Daenerys hesitated, shifting the bag against her chest. "Visenya—"

"We need coin, Dany. If we’re truly to escape, we can’t do it empty-handed."

Without another word, Visenya slipped inside. The room was dimly lit by flickering lanterns, casting long shadows over the riches stored within. Chests of gold and silver, bags of gemstones, and priceless artifacts lined the walls, a fortune hoarded by Illyrio for his own schemes. Without wasting time, Visenya grabbed several small bags of coin and jewels, ones she could easily carry. Daenerys quickly did the same, stuffing them into the folds of her cloak, their movements quick and precise.

The room was stifling, filled with the scent of parchment and metal. Illyrio’s hoard stretched far, but Visenya moved with precision, selecting only what they needed. She had just fastened a pouch to her belt when something caught her eye.

A glint of metal, dark and ancient, peeking from the shadows behind an ornate chest.

She frowned, stepping closer, heart pounding with an inexplicable sense of recognition. Reaching out, she pulled the object free—and froze.

A sword, long and elegant, forged of dark Valyrian steel. The rippling waves of the blade seemed to drink in the dim light, its deadly beauty undeniable. Its hilt was intricate, its flame-like design curling toward a deep red gemstone embedded in the center of the crossguard. The pommel was carved in the shape of a dragon’s wing, sleek and curved, as though made for her hand alone.

Dark Sister.

Visenya inhaled sharply. This was no ordinary treasure. This was history, legacy, power. The blade of Visenya Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror’s sister-wife, a weapon wielded by some of the greatest warriors House Targaryen had ever known.

It had been lost for generations, its whereabouts unknown. Yet here it was, hidden in Illyrio’s hoard like a forgotten relic, waiting.

Daenerys stepped closer, her breath catching as she recognized the significance of the weapon. "Visenya... is that...?"

Visenya tightened her grip around the hilt. "Dark Sister," she whispered, the name feeling right on her tongue. The sword was light, perfectly balanced, meant for a skilled hand. Meant for a warrior.

Her fingers traced the metal, feeling the history beneath her touch. She had never believed in fate, not truly, but at that moment, as the fire raged outside, as their dragons stirred within their bag, she knew—this was meant for her.

Memories flashed, unbidden—visions of past battles, of the first Visenya wielding this very blade, striking down foes on the fields of conquest. For a moment, she thought she could feel the whispers of the past calling to her, willing her to take up the blade and make it hers. The weight of it felt natural in her grasp, as if it had always belonged to her.

She met Daenerys’ gaze, firelight reflecting in both their violet eyes. "This is no coincidence."

Daenerys nodded slowly. "Then take it. Wield it."

Visenya did not need to be told twice. She slid the blade through the belt at her waist, feeling its reassuring weight settle against her. A strange warmth spread through her fingers, as if the sword itself recognized her.

"Illyrio hid it here for a reason," Daenerys murmured. "Why?"

Visenya exhaled. "Perhaps he did not know what he had. Or perhaps he was waiting for the right moment to use it for his own ends."

Daenerys reached out, touching the blade lightly, reverence in her eyes. "But it's yours now."

Visenya nodded, gripping the hilt with certainty.

A distant crash echoed through the halls—part of the structure weakening beneath the weight of the fire. Time was running out.

"Let’s go," she said, and with one last glance at the treasure trove behind them, they slipped back into the shadows, moving toward their future, the weight of history now at Visenya’s side.

As they moved through the smoke-filled corridors, Visenya felt the sword’s presence like an extension of herself. It was more than just steel—it was a part of her now, a whisper of a destiny she had yet to fully understand. Daenerys fell into step beside her, her grip tight on their bag, her expression unreadable. Yet, as they reached the final corridor leading to the exit, Daenerys glanced at the blade at Visenya’s hip and nodded in quiet approval.

Together, they stepped forward, fire and history at their backs, the future wide open before them.

The cool night air wrapped around them as Visenya and Daenerys moved swiftly through the shadowed streets of Pentos, their steps light and purposeful. The city was quiet save for the distant sounds of revelry from the harbor district and the lingering shouts from Illyrio’s manse as the fire raged on. The sisters kept their heads low, their movements precise, the weight of their stolen riches and their hidden dragons pressing against them as they hurried toward the stables.

Their escape had been smooth so far, but Visenya knew better than to believe it would stay that way. Every instinct warned her that danger lurked just out of sight, waiting for the moment to strike. She had grown up watching for signs, for the twitch of a hand toward a hidden weapon, for the flicker of a gaze that lingered too long. She would not let them be caught unaware. Their survival depended on vigilance, on knowing when to trust their instincts over convenience. It was not just her life at stake, but Daenerys’, and the lives of the fragile creatures that slept within their pack, their tiny claws occasionally shifting beneath the fabric.

They reached the stable yard without incident, the scent of hay and horse sweat filling the air. Lanterns flickered dimly near the entrance, casting long shadows across the stalls. Most of the stable hands had either gone to sleep or had run to see the fire consuming Illyrio’s manse. Only a single stable boy remained, slumped against a pile of feed sacks, dozing lightly. The chaos worked in their favor, granting them the cover they needed.

Visenya moved first, leading Daenerys toward the best-kept horses. "Two for riding, two for packs," she whispered, eyeing the strongest mounts. She moved quickly, loosening the reins and saddling the animals with practiced ease. Years of watching and learning had not been wasted. She had spent her life watching the warriors and mercenaries of Pentos, absorbing their movements, memorizing what they prioritized in survival. A good horse was just as vital as a sharp blade, if not more so.

Daenerys followed suit, fastening their bags to the additional pack horses. Their dragons stirred within their hidden bundle, shifting but remaining quiet, as if understanding the need for stealth. With the last buckle secured, Visenya turned to her sister. "We ride hard until dawn, then we decide our next move."

Daenerys nodded, determination set in her features. She had never been much of a rider, but there was no hesitation in her now. They mounted their horses, adjusting their cloaks to conceal their identities as much as possible before guiding the animals through the stable yard.

The city gates were still open—Pentos did not operate under strict lockdowns—but they had to keep to the quieter paths to avoid unwanted attention. The fewer eyes on them, the better. They rode through narrow alleyways, moving quickly but with control, their horses' hooves muffled by the dirt roads. Visenya’s eyes flicked over every shadow, watching for signs of pursuit, listening for the shift of movement beyond their own.

As they reached the outskirts, the scent of the sea growing stronger, their path was suddenly blocked by the presence of a lone rider approaching from the road ahead.

A man, broad-shouldered and clad in a dark gambeson, rode toward them. His cloak bore no sigil, his attire unadorned and worn from travel. His horse was well-bred, built for endurance, and laden with supplies. He held no weapon in his hands, but Visenya could see the hilt of a sword strapped to his side. His beard was thick and peppered with gray, his expression unreadable in the dim moonlight.

Visenya’s fingers tightened around the reins, her instincts bristling. A knight on the road, this far from Westeros, at this hour, was no coincidence. Her free hand hovered close to Dark Sister’s hilt, ready to draw if needed.

He pulled his horse to a stop before them, his sharp gaze flickering between them, noting their urgency, their secrecy. His eyes lingered on Daenerys, and for a moment, something like recognition crossed his face.

"Your Grace?" His voice was rough, yet respectful.

Daenerys stilled beside Visenya, her fingers gripping the reins tighter. "You mistake me for another."

Jorah’s gaze did not waver. "No, I do not."

Visenya narrowed her eyes, shifting slightly, her hand tightening. "And who are you to speak with such certainty?"

He inclined his head slightly. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. I was traveling to Pentos to offer my services to Prince Viserys Targaryen, the rightful king. I served your father for many years, and I had hoped to serve his son as well." His voice remained even, though there was something in his tone, a hesitancy, as if he was assessing their reaction.

At the mention of their brother, Daenerys’ expression darkened, her posture stiffening. Her grip on the reins tightened, and Visenya could feel the shift in her twin’s emotions. This was a reminder of what they had left behind, of the man they would never bow to again.

Visenya tilted her head, her voice cold. "Then you wasted your time. Viserys is dead."

Jorah’s expression did not change, but there was something in his gaze—an understanding, a flicker of something close to relief. "Then my journey was not entirely in vain."

He reached for something in the satchel at his side. Visenya’s grip tightened on her blade, but instead of a weapon, he withdrew a bundle of books. Their leather bindings were rich, well-kept despite the wear of travel.

"These were meant for you," Jorah said, voice lower now, measured. "Books of songs and histories of the Seven Kingdoms. Knowledge of your ancestors, of the land you have never seen. If you are to reclaim it, you must first know it."

He extended them toward Daenerys, who hesitated before reaching forward and accepting the bundle. Her fingers brushed against the covers, her violet eyes scanning the worn spines before she met Jorah’s gaze. "Why?"

Jorah exhaled, his shoulders settling slightly. "Because I know what it means to be lost in a foreign land, to dream of a home that seems too distant to reach. If you truly mean to claim your birthright, knowledge will serve you better than any sword."

Visenya watched him carefully, searching for deception, for the glint of a hidden agenda. But his face remained steady, unreadable yet sincere. He had expected to serve their brother, but now, he seemed to understand that Viserys had never been the one worthy of following.

Daenerys glanced at Visenya, and a silent conversation passed between them. They had no reason to trust him—but neither did they have cause to see him as an immediate threat. And his knowledge of Westeros, of the realm they had never seen, could be useful.

Finally, Daenerys nodded, tucking the books beneath her cloak. "Then ride with us. If you are willing to serve, serve me."

Jorah inclined his head in quiet deference. "As you command."

Visenya did not relax, but she said nothing, simply turning her horse toward the open road once more. The city of Pentos was behind them, and ahead lay only the unknown. But with steel, fire, and now knowledge on their side, they would carve their own fate.

And so, under the light of the moon, three riders set forth—one knight, two exiles, and the first whisper of a dynasty yet to rise.

They rode hard for several hours, leaving Pentos far behind them as they pushed their horses through the quiet, open lands under the cover of night. The air was cool against their faces, the distant sounds of the city long since faded, leaving only the steady rhythm of hooves against dirt. Visenya kept her senses sharp, scanning the horizon for any signs of pursuit. They could not risk being followed, not after everything they had taken with them—gold, knowledge, and the greatest prize of all.

The night stretched long, the road ahead endless, but they rode on. The horses' breath came in short huffs, their powerful bodies moving tirelessly through the landscape. Occasionally, Daenerys would cast a glance toward her sister, their silent understanding keeping them aligned without the need for words. Jorah trailed close behind, his eyes ever watchful, but Visenya still did not trust him fully. He had come to serve their brother, and while he now rode with them, she would not forget where his loyalty had once lain.

By the time exhaustion weighed heavy upon them, the moon had begun its descent, casting silver light over the quiet landscape. They came upon a secluded spot away from the road, nestled among a small clump of rocks where they could shelter from prying eyes. It was not much, but it was safe enough for the night.

Jorah dismounted first, his movements slow, his body stiff from the long ride. He ran a hand through his beard before turning to the twins. "I’ll keep watch while you rest, Princesses. It will be safer that way."

Visenya studied him for a moment, her instincts still wary, but she nodded. "Fine, but wake me if you hear anything."

Daenerys smiled slightly at her sister's protectiveness but said nothing. The two of them worked in silent tandem, setting up their small camp. They laid out their bedrolls so close together that they resembled a single one more than two separate rolls, the fabric pressed together as if mirroring the bond between them. When they finally sat down, their shoulders brushed, an unconscious comfort in the vast, open night. The fire was unnecessary; they would not risk a visible light in the darkness.

Once settled, Visenya reached for the bag strapped to her side, undoing the bindings carefully. The moment she loosened the fabric, movement stirred within. A small, scaled head peeked out, followed by tiny clawed limbs grasping at the air. The snowy white dragon immediately climbed into her lap, nuzzling against her chest as if seeking the warmth of her heartbeat. Visenya ran her fingers along its smooth scales, feeling a deep, unshakable connection settle within her. It was a feeling she had not known she had been missing until this very moment, like something long lost had finally been returned to her. The sensation was so familiar, so achingly right, that it nearly stole her breath. This was not just a dragon—this was Hedwig. Reborn in fire as Visenya herself had been reborn in blood. A name rose unbidden to her lips, one that had always belonged to this creature, even across worlds and lifetimes. "Sylveris," she whispered, and the dragon let out a soft, contented trill in response. She felt it again—the bond, the unshakable connection that filled the space within her she had never realized was empty.

Daenerys did the same, carefully pulling out her black-and-red hatchling. The black-and-red hatchling let out a soft, almost purring growl as he curled against her stomach. Daenerys studied him for a long moment, watching the way his ember-like eyes flickered in the moonlight, the way he pressed into her warmth as though he had always belonged there. She traced a careful hand over his wings before speaking his name for the first time. "Drakarion." The dragon stirred, letting out a pleased rumble, as if acknowledging the name as his own. His wings twitched slightly, his tail wrapping instinctively around her arm. The other two dragons made their way to their respective mothers, seeking warmth, safety, and familiarity. As Visenya and Daenerys held them, the names came as naturally as breath, as though the dragons had whispered them into their souls. "Aenryx," Visenya murmured, cradling the cream-and-gold dragon close. "Vaelyx," Daenerys added softly, stroking the green-and-bronze hatchling’s smooth scales. Both dragons responded with soft noises, curling more tightly against them, their bonds cemented by name and touch.

Jorah, who had been adjusting the straps on his saddle, turned at the unexpected noise. He had not known what they carried in that bag, had assumed it to be supplies or perhaps something sentimental—never once had they spoken of what they truly possessed. But nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. The moment his eyes fell upon them, he froze, his entire body going rigid. He stared, his mouth slightly open, his breath caught in his throat as if unable to comprehend what he was seeing.

"Seven hells..." he muttered under his breath, stepping closer, but stopping himself before he got too near. His gaze darted between each dragon, his breath coming quicker as if the sight alone was too much to comprehend. "You— you never said a word about this. I thought you carried supplies, or coin, but—gods, they're real... truly real."

Visenya lifted her gaze to him, one hand stroking Sylveris' back. "We never told you, Ser Jorah. Would you have believed us if we had?"

Jorah exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. "I did not think—no, I could not have imagined—dragons… truly alive."

The dragons made small, chirping sounds, shifting between soft trills and barely audible hisses. It was a sound Visenya knew well, one she had heard in another life. She responded instinctively, letting the familiar language slip past her lips, a tongue of hisses and sharp syllables. But here, in this world, it felt different. Less like whispers in the dark and more like something ancient, something powerful. This was not Parseltongue as she had once known it—it was something deeper, truer. A language not of snakes, but of dragons.

Daenerys followed, her own words weaving through the night air. Their dragons tilted their heads, their bright eyes widening, recognizing the cadence, the meaning, even if they could not yet speak in return. Instead, they let out their own responses—tiny warbles, chuffing breaths, soft growls that carried the promise of what they would one day become.

Visenya and Daenerys settled into their bedroll, which had long since become one, indistinguishable from separate spaces. Arms wrapped around each other in an intimate embrace, seeking the comfort of warmth and familiarity. Their dragons, sensing the security and love of their mothers, curled together between them, forming a single multi-colored nest of scales, tails entwining and wings draping over one another. Their tiny bodies radiated warmth, their soft breaths mingling in the cool night air. Dark Sister rested beside Visenya, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, a silent guardian watching over them.

Jorah, still standing, still watching, realized in that moment that he was witnessing something far greater than he had ever imagined. The world would change because of them. He was certain of it.

And so, under the veil of night, as the twins nestled close with their dragons in their arms, a new dawn waited just beyond the horizon, unseen but inevitable.

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the quiet clearing where Visenya and Daenerys lay entwined in their shared bedroll. The warmth of their dragons nestled between them kept the chill of the morning at bay. Slowly, the sisters stirred, the soft rustling of wings and the faint chirps of their dragons drawing them from sleep. Their bond, forged in blood, fire, and love, was as unbreakable as ever.

Visenya was the first to fully awaken, blinking against the light as she shifted slightly, careful not to disturb Sylveris, who was curled tightly against her chest. The snowy dragon let out a soft trill, nuzzling into her warmth before peeking up at her with those familiar amber eyes. Visenya felt the bond between them strengthen even further, the weight of familiarity settling into her bones. It was more than instinct; it was something that spanned beyond this life, something that whispered to her soul. She ran a gentle hand over Sylveris’ smooth scales before glancing to her side.

Daenerys had also begun to wake, stretching slightly, her fingers brushing over the black-and-red form of Drakarion, who let out a low, rumbling noise of contentment. The other two dragons, Aenryx and Vaelyx, were similarly stirring, their small bodies shifting as they instinctively sought out their mothers’ warmth. For a long moment, the twins remained in the quiet of the morning, simply taking in the sight of their children, the reality of their existence still something that felt almost like a dream.

Jorah had kept his word and remained awake through the night, standing a short distance away, watching the horizon. When he noticed them stirring, he turned, stepping closer. "We should eat before we move. There’s dried meat and bread left."

Visenya nodded, sitting up slowly, mindful of Sylveris’ movements as she adjusted. "We’ll need to feed them first."

Daenerys was already reaching for their pack, retrieving the meat they had managed to bring with them before their escape. As she tore a strip into smaller pieces, Drakarion let out a soft, eager sound, stretching his wings slightly as he tried to climb higher up her arm. "Patience, my love," she murmured with amusement, offering him a piece of meat. He took it greedily, swallowing it almost whole before looking up at her for more.

The other dragons soon followed suit, their chirping growing more insistent as Visenya and Daenerys carefully rationed the food, making sure each of them ate their fair share. Even Sylveris, though smaller than the others, snapped up her portion with surprising eagerness, her movements precise and elegant. The way she moved, the way she reacted, reminded Visenya so much of Hedwig that she had to take a moment to compose herself, the weight of past and present pressing against each other in her mind.

Jorah watched in quiet fascination, his expression unreadable as the sisters tended to the creatures with such instinctive care. Finally, he spoke. "You need a destination. You can’t simply wander without a plan."

Visenya exchanged a look with Daenerys before nodding. "We’ve been talking about it. We can’t stay near Pentos. Illyrio might send people after us, and if anyone learns of what we carry—" she glanced down at Sylveris, "—we will become targets."

Daenerys folded her hands in her lap, stroking Drakarion’s back absentmindedly. "We need to go somewhere far, somewhere where we can disappear for a time and plan our next steps."

Jorah considered them for a moment before nodding. "Then east is your best option. The Free Cities are too connected, too loyal to the Iron Throne or their own interests. But further east... there are places where no one would dare challenge you."

"Volantis," Daenerys said, the name rolling off her tongue as if it had been waiting to be spoken. "From there, we can find passage on a ship heading farther east."

Visenya nodded in agreement. "It’s large, powerful, and full of travelers. We’ll blend in. If we take a ship from there, we can go anywhere."

Jorah did not argue, though his expression was thoughtful. "Volantis is a place of power and faith. The Red Priests have strong influence there. And they—" his gaze flickered to the dragons, "—may take an interest in you."

Daenerys tilted her head. "Then we’ll be careful."

Visenya tightened her grip on Dark Sister. "And we’ll be ready."

Jorah sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. "It’s a long ride. We should leave soon."

The sisters exchanged another glance before nodding. With the decision made, they began to pack up their small camp, securing their supplies, their dragons settling into their usual places within their cloaks and bags. The morning was still young, and already their path was set.

Before they mounted their horses, Visenya took a moment to look at the sky, the rising sun painting the clouds in shades of orange and gold. Something about the sight filled her with an unspoken sense of purpose. They were leaving behind the uncertainty of their past and stepping into a future of their own making.

With Volantis ahead and the unknown stretching before them, they mounted their horses, the road calling them onward. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together, as they always had. They had fire. They had blood. And now, they had dragons. And for the first time, Visenya felt as if they were truly free.

 

Chapter 3: III

Summary:

The long journey to Volantis begins. Ruins lost to time and prophecies long forgotten. Dreams of the future or a future?

Notes:

Got a few chapters for the journey but honestly not much happens to Dany and Visenya in Book 1 & 2 without the Dothraki so there will be time jumps going forward.

Also I may have just writing a chapter that includes the Red Wedding and oh that was fun to write but also sad.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

III

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The road stretched long before them, winding through rolling fields and patches of dense woodland as they made their way eastward. The morning air was crisp, the golden light of the sun casting a warm glow over the landscape. Birds stirred in the trees, calling to one another as the world slowly woke around them. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, the remnants of the previous night’s rain still clinging to the undergrowth. The land was peaceful, undisturbed by the greater battles and politics that raged beyond it, but the three riders knew better than to trust in such serenity.

Visenya and Daenerys rode side by side, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them, headscarves covering their distinctive silver hair. It was a simple precaution, but an important one—Targaryen hair was unmistakable, and the fewer curious eyes upon them, the better. Even a whisper of their presence in these lands could draw unwanted attention, and they were not yet strong enough to face the consequences of discovery.

Their dragons were nestled safely within the large bags they carried, their small bodies shifting occasionally, their wings rustling softly against the fabric. Visenya held Sylveris and Aenryx close, the cool weight of their scales a familiar comfort against her stomach. Daenerys cradled Drakarion and Vaelyx in her own bag, her fingers absently stroking along Drakarion’s snout as he peeked out from the folds of cloth. The dragons did not like being confined, but they tolerated it, sensing their mothers’ need for caution. Occasionally, a soft chirp or trill would escape, prompting a reassuring stroke from Daenerys or Visenya to calm them.

Jorah rode slightly ahead, his posture relaxed but his gaze ever watchful. He had insisted on taking the lead, scanning the road for dangers before they could arise. They had already passed a few merchant wagons and lone travelers, but none had paid them much attention. So far, their precautions were holding. But Visenya knew that would not last forever. The world was not kind to wandering queens with stolen dragons. They would need to reach Volantis before the wrong eyes found them.

Daenerys exhaled softly, shifting in her saddle. "It feels strange to hide what we are."

Visenya glanced at her, adjusting the strap of her bag as Sylveris let out a tiny, disgruntled chirp. "Better strange than dead."

Daenerys hummed in quiet agreement, but her gaze drifted forward, thoughtful. "How long until we reach Volantis?"

"At least a month, perhaps longer if we take the safest paths," Jorah replied without turning back. "The road is long, and we will need to stop at villages for supplies."

Visenya frowned. "Safer for whom?"

Jorah sighed, slowing his horse slightly so they rode more evenly. "For you. Volantis is the last Free City before the deeper east. But it is not safe, especially for ones such as yourselves."

Daenerys tilted her head. "And what are we?"

Jorah gave her a long look. "The last of your kind."

Silence settled between them for a moment. The soft rustling of leaves and the rhythmic sound of hooves on the dirt road filled the space where words might have been.

Visenya adjusted her grip on her reins, her fingers brushing over the pommel of Dark Sister at her hip. "Then we best make sure we’re not easy prey."

Daenerys glanced at her, a small smile playing at her lips. "You always say that."

Visenya smirked. "Because it’s always true."

As the sun climbed higher, the warmth began to press down upon them, making the weight of their cloaks and scarves feel heavier than before. The air was thick with the scent of wildflowers and damp wood, but it did little to soothe the tension running through Visenya’s body. They were not safe, not yet, and every mile forward felt like another step into the unknown.

They stopped by a small creek at midday, allowing the horses to drink and rest. Daenerys dismounted first, carefully untying her bag and setting it upon her lap as she sat on a fallen log. Drakarion poked his head out immediately, chirping in protest. She smiled faintly and stroked his ridged head. "You’ve been patient."

Visenya followed suit, crouching beside the water to splash cool liquid against her face. Sylveris stretched within the bag, twisting slightly before peeking out, her amber eyes gleaming in the light. Visenya felt something settle within her as she stroked the tiny dragon’s back. This was her—Hedwig, reborn in fire. In a world where so much had been torn from her, this was something that had been given back.

Sensing the safety of the clearing, Daenerys and Visenya exchanged a glance before carefully setting their dragons down onto the soft grass, allowing them to stretch their wings. The young dragons wasted no time, unfurling their delicate wings and stepping cautiously onto the earth. Drakarion stretched his neck, letting out a soft growl as he scraped his claws into the dirt, testing the firmness beneath him. Sylveris prowled along the edge of the water, dipping her nose into the cool stream before flicking droplets into the air with a satisfied trill.

Aenryx and Vaelyx took off with an unsteady bound, their wings flapping in excitement as they chased after each other through the grass, their playfulness almost reminiscent of young wolf pups. They tumbled and hissed, rolling in the dappled sunlight as their limbs tangled together in a miniature struggle. Visenya watched them closely, taking in their growing strength, the way their bodies moved with purpose even in their play.

Jorah observed from the side, his arms crossed, eyes unreadable. "They are still small," he murmured, "but they will not stay that way for long. Have you considered where you will keep them once they are too large to hide?"

Daenerys glanced toward Drakarion, who had turned his keen gaze toward a butterfly fluttering nearby, watching it with intense curiosity. "We will find a way. We always do."

Visenya’s fingers brushed over the hilt of Dark Sister as she watched Sylveris stalk gracefully through the tall grass, her sleek form moving with quiet confidence. "They are dragons. They will carve their own place in the world."

Jorah said nothing more, only nodding before turning his attention back to the road. The dragons played a little longer, testing their strength in their own way, before returning to their mothers, curling against them as though drawn back by an invisible tether.

After a while, Daenerys and Visenya gathered them carefully, placing them back into the safety of their bags, the dragons letting out quiet, contented sighs as they settled. The road ahead was still long, but for now, they had stolen a moment of peace.

Jorah stood at the edge of the creek, arms crossed as he surveyed their surroundings. "We should not linger too long. The road is safest when we stay ahead of trouble."

Visenya dried her hands on her cloak, then met his gaze. "And if trouble catches up?"

Jorah sighed. "Then we fight. But it’s best not to invite the fight in the first place."

Daenerys looked between them before standing, tucking Drakarion back into the bag with gentle care. "Then let’s keep moving. The sooner we reach Volantis, the sooner we can decide our next steps."

They rode on, knowing the journey ahead would be long and filled with dangers yet unseen. But they rode together, and that was enough.

~~

 

The journey stretched on for days, the road winding through the rolling hills and dense forests that marked the path eastward. The land was wild, untamed, the only signs of civilization the occasional abandoned homestead or distant village, too far to risk approaching. They rode hard during the day, stopping only when necessary, and rested in secluded glades at night, keeping their fires small and their voices hushed. They knew better than to assume safety, even in the quiet of the wilderness. The deeper into the lands they traveled, the closer they edged toward the remnants of the past—the bones of an empire burned away by dragons long before them.

The farther they traveled, the more the land changed. The soft grasslands gave way to the rugged terrain of the Velvet Hills, where the ground became uneven and the wind carried the scent of something old—something ancient. Here, even the trees seemed twisted, gnarled by the weight of time, their roots thick and clawing at the ground like the hands of the dead. It was here, as they crested a rise, that the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe came into view.

The once-great city had long since crumbled, reduced to broken stone and shattered towers, the remains of its walls clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Ghoyan Drohe, a memory of a time when the Rhoynar thrived, now nothing more than a scar upon the land. Its fall had come at the hands of dragonfire, burned to the ground by the Valyrian Freehold over a thousand years ago. What had once been a proud city, a jewel along the river, was now little more than a graveyard.

Visenya pulled her horse to a stop at the crest of the hill, her gaze sweeping over the ruins. The air felt thick here, heavy with history, with destruction. "This was once a great city. Now, look at it."

Daenerys pulled her scarf tighter around her face as the wind howled through the empty streets below. "The Rhoynar stood against Valyria, and this was their reward. Burned to nothing."

Jorah shifted in his saddle, his expression unreadable. "A warning to those who would defy dragonlords."

Visenya narrowed her eyes as she surveyed the ruins. "Then perhaps it is also a lesson."

They descended into the ruins cautiously, their horses picking their way over cracked stone and the remnants of streets long abandoned. The air was dry, the wind whispering through hollow doorways and broken columns. Though the city was long dead, there was still a feeling of presence, as if ghosts lingered in the shadows, watching. Every gust of wind seemed to carry voices that no longer spoke, the echoes of those who had perished in dragonfire whispering their final moments into the silence.

The dragons stirred within their bags, sensing the change in the air. Sylveris let out a soft, questioning trill, her small head poking out to survey the desolation. Drakarion was more restless, his tail flicking sharply against the fabric that confined him. Aenryx let out a soft hiss, his tiny wings stretching against the bag as if he wished to take flight and escape this place.

"They don't like it here," Daenerys murmured, stroking Vaelyx’s head as he pressed against her chest. His body was warm beneath her fingers, yet there was a subtle tremble in his small frame, as if even he, so young, could feel the weight of death that clung to the stones around them.

"Neither do I," Jorah muttered. "This place is cursed with the weight of the past. We should not linger."

Visenya, however, was quiet, her fingers brushing the pommel of Dark Sister as she studied the ruins around them. She could almost hear the echoes of the past, the screams of the Rhoynar as fire rained from the sky, as everything they built was reduced to nothing but ash and memory. And yet, it was not only destruction she felt here. It was resistance, the last breaths of a people who had refused to kneel, who had chosen to die fighting rather than serve.

They continued deeper into the city, their footfalls muted against the dust-covered stones. The remnants of an old market square sprawled before them, its once-grand pillars now crumbling, half-buried in the earth. A fountain stood at its center, cracked and dry, the carved figures of Rhoynish warriors still standing in defiance, though time and fire had worn away their faces.

"We’ll rest here for a short while," Visenya finally said. "Enough to water the horses and let the dragons stretch. Then we move on."

They dismounted, leading their horses toward what remained of the fountain, where a shallow pool of rainwater had collected in the stone basin. Daenerys knelt beside it, dipping her fingers into the water and watching as the ripples spread outward.

Visenya unfastened the clasps of her bag and gently lifted Sylveris out, setting her down on the worn stones. The white dragon stretched her wings, shaking out her small body before prowling forward, sniffing the air with a low, curious hum. Daenerys did the same, releasing Drakarion, who wasted no time in clambering onto a nearby chunk of broken masonry, his sharp eyes scanning the ruins as if searching for unseen threats. Aenryx and Vaelyx followed, the four of them moving through the space like cautious explorers.

The dragons, even so young, felt the weight of the place. Sylveris pressed against Visenya’s leg, her warm scales a reassuring presence. Drakarion tilted his head toward the shattered remains of a building, letting out a low, guttural growl before bounding back toward Daenerys, nuzzling into her palm.

Jorah watched them with careful eyes, arms crossed over his chest. "They know something lingers here. Even in death, some places do not let go so easily."

Visenya ran her fingers along Sylveris’ spine. "Whatever remains here cannot touch us."

Daenerys glanced toward her sister, noting the certainty in her tone. "You sound sure."

"Because I am," Visenya murmured. "The past holds no power over us unless we allow it to."

As the wind picked up again, carrying with it the faintest whisper of something unseen, they gathered their dragons and prepared to leave. The ruins had given them their moment of rest, but they did not belong here. Their path lay forward, beyond the shadows of the past, toward whatever fate awaited them in Volantis.

~~

The night was quiet save for the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees, the soft crackling of their small campfire, and the gentle sounds of their horses resting nearby. The sky stretched vast and endless above them, the stars glittering in the darkness like scattered diamonds. A cool breeze whispered through the trees, rustling leaves in a lullaby-like rhythm. It was one of the rare moments of peace they had on their journey, the world shrinking down to just the two of them and their dragons nestled close. The fire flickered in lazy embers, casting long, shifting shadows against the trees surrounding their camp, painting everything in hues of gold and orange.

Visenya sat with her back against a fallen log, her fingers absently stroking Sylveris, who had curled herself around her neck like a living scarf. The small white dragon was warm against her skin, her smooth scales rising and falling with each breath. She was content, utterly at ease in a way that reminded Visenya so strongly of Hedwig that it made her chest ache with familiarity. The way Sylveris' tail would twitch slightly when she was pleased, the subtle way her eyes half-lidded in satisfaction—it was unmistakable. Even the quiet, smug confidence radiating from her was something Visenya had come to know well in her previous life.

Daenerys was seated nearby, legs tucked beneath her, cradling Drakarion in her lap. The black-and-red dragon was sprawled out, his tail flicking occasionally as he shifted to get comfortable. He had his wings slightly unfurled, absorbing the warmth of the fire, content in his mother’s lap. His protective nature extended even to the way he slept—one eye always seemed to open at the slightest disturbance. Aenryx and Vaelyx had nestled together beside the fire, their wings draped lazily over one another in their own little pile of warmth. Aenryx was graceful even in sleep, her curled body carefully positioned, while Vaelyx sprawled out haphazardly, his limbs occasionally twitching as though he were dreaming of a playful chase.

The flickering light cast dancing shadows around them, but it was the sudden flare of heat that caught Visenya's attention. A small puff of golden flame erupted from Sylveris' mouth, curling into the air like a wisp of smoke before it disappeared into the night. The fire had been brief, barely more than a spark, but it was fire nonetheless.

For a moment, all was silent.

Then Drakarion let out a sharp hiss, lifting his head and glaring at Sylveris with narrowed eyes. His tail lashed once, the movement clearly one of irritation. He seemed both surprised and indignant, as if insulted that his sister had breathed fire before him. His wings flared slightly before he let out a disgruntled huff, turning his head away in what could only be described as dramatic annoyance. His tail twitched sharply, slapping against Daenerys’ thigh in frustration. She chuckled, stroking his head, her touch soothing but unable to completely ease his wounded pride.

Visenya snorted, recognizing the look of smug satisfaction in Sylveris’ expression. The small dragon lifted her head higher, eyes half-lidded, her body puffing up just slightly—just as Hedwig used to do when she was particularly pleased with herself. Even the way she tilted her head, feathers—no, scales—practically bristling with self-satisfaction, was familiar.

“She looks proud of herself,” Visenya murmured, rubbing a finger along Sylveris’ neck. The dragon leaned into her touch with an almost imperious air, as if accepting the praise as her due.

Daenerys huffed in amusement, shifting as Drakarion continued to sulk. "Drakarion doesn’t seem to agree."

Visenya chuckled. "He’ll have his moment."

Drakarion let out a soft growl, stretching his wings and settling himself back down, though his tail still flicked now and then, betraying his irritation. He curled in closer to Daenerys, pressing against her in what was clearly a need for comfort. His sharp eyes, however, stayed locked onto Sylveris as though willing himself to catch up. Daenerys smoothed her hand down his back, feeling the warmth of his scales beneath her palm.

“He’s pouting,” Daenerys observed, brushing her fingers gently down his spine. "He’ll get over it."

Visenya smirked. "Eventually."

Aenryx, stirred from her comfortable nest with Vaelyx, let out a soft chirp, lifting her head curiously. She watched Sylveris for a moment before attempting her own breath of fire. A pitiful wisp of smoke escaped her nostrils, and the little green dragoness blinked, looking utterly perplexed before letting out a frustrated squeak.

Sylveris trilled at her, something between encouragement and amusement, before nuzzling against Visenya’s cheek, her smugness fading into warmth and affection. Vaelyx, sensing Aenryx’s frustration, gave his sister a small bump with his nose before curling back up beside her. He was always mischievous, but he had a way of knowing when his siblings needed reassurance, and at that moment, Aenryx did.

The firelight flickered against Sylveris' pale scales, and Visenya knew, without a doubt, that she had been given back something precious. Her heart swelled with quiet gratitude. In a world that had stripped so much from her, the gods—whether of this world or the one she had left behind—had given her this.

The dragons were growing. They were learning. And soon, Drakarion and the others would have their fire too.

For now, though, they simply sat together in the quiet of the night, the bond between them strong, unshaken, and filled with the promise of what was to come. Their dragons, despite their growing size and abilities, still acted as they always had—affectionate, playful, entirely devoted to their mothers. It was a sight that, no matter how many times it repeated, never ceased to make Visenya and Daenerys smile.

Visenya shifted, resting her cheek against the top of Sylveris’ head as the little dragon coiled tighter around her. Daenerys let out a soft sigh, leaning her weight slightly against Visenya as Drakarion draped himself across her lap, his sulking forgotten as he pressed against the warmth of his mother. Aenryx and Vaelyx had settled back down, the playful exchange momentarily forgotten in the comfort of their family’s presence.

The fire crackled softly, the world beyond their small camp feeling distant, unimportant. In this moment, with their dragons wrapped around them, their journey felt secondary to the simple, irreplaceable comfort of family. The road ahead would be long, full of trials and uncertainty, but tonight, they were together, and that was all that mattered.

The fire had burned down to a soft glow, the embers casting flickering shadows across the trees as the night deepened. The air had grown cooler, the gentle rustling of the leaves and the distant chirping of insects the only sounds that filled the quiet. Their small camp felt isolated, safe for now, but Visenya knew better than to trust the illusion of peace. There were too many dangers lurking in the world, too many eyes that might be watching, too many forces beyond their control. But tonight, at least, the darkness held no immediate threats, only the soft, whispering hush of the wilderness.

She adjusted her position against a nearby tree, rolling her shoulders as she settled in for first watch. The weight of Dark Sister rested against her hip, her fingers idly brushing over the hilt. Sylveris, ever her shadow, remained curled around her shoulders, her small body warm against Visenya’s neck. The white dragon had refused to leave her side, nuzzling into her with a quiet possessiveness that felt like a promise—Sylveris would watch over her as much as she would watch over them all. The dragon’s slow, rhythmic breathing was steadying, an anchor against the storm of memories creeping into Visenya’s mind.

A few feet away, Daenerys had settled into their shared bedroll, her arm curled protectively around Drakarion, who was nestled against her chest. His wings twitched slightly, a soft, contented growl escaping him as he pressed closer to his mother. Aenryx had curled up at Daenerys’ back, her graceful form tucked neatly against her warmth, while Vaelyx sprawled across them both, his limbs draped lazily over his siblings. The pile of dragons shifted occasionally, their bodies unconsciously adjusting to stay close to the source of their comfort. It was a sight Visenya had grown used to, and yet, each time she saw them curled together, something inside her softened.

Visenya watched them for a long moment, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. The sight of them like this—Daenerys surrounded by their dragons, her expression peaceful in sleep—made something in her chest tighten. It was a feeling of quiet relief, a fragile kind of happiness she had rarely been able to grasp in her previous life. She had been surrounded by people who claimed to care, who had called her friend, comrade, savior—but it had never truly been this. This warmth. This quiet, unshaken devotion. She had spent years fighting for a world that had never truly been hers, clinging to bonds that always seemed to slip away before she could grasp them.

Her fingers absently stroked Sylveris’ scales, her thoughts drifting back to the life she had left behind. The memories felt distant, like a dream she had long since woken from, but some things never truly faded. She had known love before, but it had been fleeting, always slipping through her fingers before she could truly hold onto it. Sirius had been the closest thing to family she had ever had—a rebellious, loving presence who had cared for her when no one else had. He had been her shelter in a storm, and then he had been taken from her, just like so much else. Just like everyone else.

And yet, here, in this world, she had something different. Something more.

She had Daenerys, her sister in blood and soul, someone who loved her without hesitation or condition. They had their dragons, their children, creatures of fire and magic who would never leave them. They had built something real, something unshaken by the weight of the past. For the first time, she did not feel like she was fighting to hold onto something that was already slipping away. There was no Dumbledore with half-truths, no Order of the Phoenix with their desperate, noble sacrifices, no Hogwarts where she had once thought she belonged, only to realize that she was little more than a tool to be wielded.

Here, she was not just a pawn on someone else’s board. She was not a savior bound by duty or a soldier forced to fight battles she never wanted. She was a sister. A protector. A mother to creatures who would one day fly through the skies, unchallenged, untamed. And for the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt... whole.

Sylveris let out a soft hum, shifting against her, her warmth grounding Visenya in the present. The dragon’s amber eyes flickered in the firelight as she nudged against Visenya’s cheek, her small claws gripping her shoulder just slightly tighter, as if to reaffirm that she was still there, still watching, still waiting.

Visenya smiled faintly, pressing a gentle kiss to the dragon’s scaled head. "I know," she murmured under her breath. "This is different. This time, we have family. Real family."

Sylveris trilled softly in response, as if in agreement, her tail curling slightly tighter around Visenya’s neck. She could feel the slow, steady rhythm of her heartbeat against her own, the comforting presence of something that had been taken from her once and given back in this new life.

The fire crackled softly, the flames flickering lower as the night stretched on, quiet and undisturbed. The world beyond their small camp was vast, uncertain, filled with dangers and unseen paths, but for now, none of that mattered. For now, she had warmth, she had her sister, and she had her dragons.

And for now, that was enough.

~~

The sun hung low in the sky as they rode past the remnants of Ny Sar, the ruins of the once-great Rhoynish city now little more than weathered stones swallowed by the land. The palace that had belonged to Nymeria, the warrior queen who had led her people across the sea, still stood in broken defiance against time. It was the last true marker that a grand city had once thrived here, its history now buried beneath earth and vine.

Neither Visenya nor Daenerys spoke much as they passed, their gazes lingering on the crumbling palace, its silhouette stark against the setting sun. It was a reminder—of conquest, of survival, of what it meant to carve out a legacy even in the face of utter destruction.

By nightfall, they found a place to make camp—a collection of old ruins that seemed safe enough, stone remnants of another lost civilization long forgotten. The air carried the scent of damp earth and age-old dust, the weight of history pressing against them as they dismounted and began setting up for the night.

While Jorah saw to the horses and prepared a small fire, the twins wandered through the ruins, their dragons clinging to them or scampering across the stone to investigate the unfamiliar ground. Sylveris was perched as usual around Visenya’s shoulders, her tail curled around her neck, while Drakarion prowled at Daenerys’ heels, his sharp eyes flicking over every crack and crevice as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows. Aenryx and Vaelyx took turns darting ahead, sniffing at the worn stone, their movements curious but cautious.

The ruins, despite their abandonment, had a presence about them, a silent echo of something lost but not forgotten. As they moved through the crumbling walls and shattered archways, Visenya’s fingers trailed along the aged stone, brushing over patterns that had long since faded into obscurity. Then, in the dimming twilight, something caught her eye.

"Daenerys," she called softly, her tone laced with intrigue.

Her sister turned, stepping closer, her gaze following where Visenya had paused. Beneath the creeping moss and dirt, a series of inscriptions had been carved into the stone, the lines precise despite the wear of centuries. The script was unmistakable—High Valyrian.

Both of them knew the language as effortlessly as they breathed; it was not just something they had learned—it was the first language that had ever passed their lips. Kneeling, Visenya brushed away the moss carefully, revealing more of the inscription beneath.

"This is Valyrian," Daenerys murmured, running her fingers over the letters. "This ruin… it was not just Rhoynish. Valyrians were here."

Visenya narrowed her eyes, scanning the carved words as she spoke them aloud.

"When the sky burns red, the flame-born shall rise again. Shadows shall dance upon dragon’s wings, and the world shall tremble at the song of fire.

The storm shall pass...They shall be born again amidst salt and smoke...

The blade of kings shall weep, its steel bathed in the blood of the dragon. The light that was quenched shall rise once more, and the last flame shall awaken in the wake of ruin."

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trailing across the ancient inscription as if touching the past itself. "The red comet... the harbinger of fire."

Daenerys glanced toward the sky, where the first stars had begun to pierce the darkening heavens. "It hasn’t appeared yet. Do you think this is prophecy, or just history repeating itself?"

"Not yet," Visenya agreed, her gaze flickering back to the inscription.

The dragons stirred as though sensing the weight of the words, their small forms pressing against their mothers. Drakarion let out a low, thoughtful trill, while Aenryx sniffed at the base of the inscription, her tail twitching in quiet unease.

Daenerys turned to look at her twin, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper reflected in her violet eyes. "Do you think this was left for us?"

Visenya didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she glanced at Sylveris, who watched her with knowing amber eyes, something old and familiar flickering within their depths. A quiet certainty settled over her, the same kind she had felt the day the dragons had hatched in the fire.

"I think," Visenya finally murmured, "that it doesn’t matter if it was meant for us."

The weight of discovery still lingered between them as Visenya and Daenerys made their way back through the ruins toward their camp. The whispers of ancient Valyrian words clung to their thoughts, intertwining with the crackling of the fire ahead. The night air had cooled considerably, carrying the scent of damp stone and old earth, the ruins watching them in silence as if waiting to reveal more secrets in the nights to come.

Jorah was already seated near the fire, tending to the flames and casting them a glance as they returned. His expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet understanding in his gaze. He had long since given up questioning the unspoken things that passed between the sisters, the way they moved in tandem, their shared language of glances and murmured words. There was something different about them compared to anyone else he had ever known. Something unshaken by the world’s cruelty.

“The ruins yield anything of worth?” he asked, though his tone lacked expectation. He knew well enough that value was not always measured in gold.

Visenya lowered herself onto the bedroll, carefully shifting Sylveris from her shoulder as the dragon huffed in sleepy protest before curling into her side. “Nothing you can sell,” she said, glancing toward Daenerys as she settled in beside her. “But something that matters.”

Daenerys stretched her legs beneath the woven fabric of their bedding, her fingers absently running down Drakarion’s back as he adjusted against her. “It was Valyrian,” she murmured, her voice thoughtful, distant. “Left behind, waiting for us.”

Jorah didn’t press for further explanation. He only gave a slow nod and turned his gaze back to the fire, his grip tightening briefly on the hilt of his sword before he stood. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said. “Rest while you can. We’ve still got a long road ahead.”

Visenya hummed in acknowledgment, shifting so that Daenerys could press against her side, the warmth of her twin familiar and grounding. Aenryx had curled up against Visenya’s hip, her tail draping lazily across her lap, while Vaelyx sprawled atop Daenerys’ legs, his small wings twitching in sleep. Sylveris remained nestled against Visenya’s chest, her soft breaths warm against her skin, and Drakarion had all but melted into Daenerys, tucked beneath her arm with his tail looped possessively around her wrist. The way the dragons instinctively gravitated toward them, seeking their warmth, their presence, was something that always settled deep in Visenya’s bones.

The fire flickered, casting long shadows over them, but it was not the past they feared in this moment, nor the prophecy carved into the ruins. It was the unknown ahead, the choices they would have to make, the battles yet to come. And yet, here, in the quiet of the night, with the warmth of Daenerys pressed against her, the slow rhythm of their dragons’ breathing surrounding them, none of that seemed to matter.

Visenya let her eyes drift shut, one arm draped protectively around Daenerys, the other resting over Sylveris. The weight of their dragons, the quiet rise and fall of their breathing, the way her twin pressed close, as she always had—it was enough to remind her that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

Daenerys shifted slightly, sighing as she buried her face against Visenya’s shoulder. "Do you think the prophecy means anything? Or is it just another warning lost to time?"

Visenya took a moment to respond, her fingers trailing idly down Sylveris’ back. "Prophecies are as unreliable as the people who interpret them. It doesn’t matter what it meant when it was written—if it ever meant anything at all. What matters is what we choose to do now."

Daenerys hummed in thought, her breathing slowing as sleep began to pull her under. The dragons, too, nestled deeper into them, their warmth shared, their bonds unshaken.

The stars stretched above them, silent witnesses to their journey, as the fire burned low and the night carried them into sleep.

~

The firelight flickered strangely, casting long, shifting shadows across the ruined hall. The stone walls, cracked and blackened by flame, seemed to breathe with the heat, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning wood, scorched earth, and burnt flesh. Ash fell like snow, drifting in slow, silent cascades around her, settling into her hair, catching on her lashes. Some of the walls had melted, their stone warped and fused together in unnatural formations where dragonfire had burned the hottest, leaving behind eerie, glass-like surfaces that reflected the glow of the flames, shimmering like molten gold.

Daenerys stood in the center of the ruin, her heart pounding, her breath shallow. Though she felt no fear, the weight of the moment pressed upon her like an unspoken warning. The fires burned hot, crackling and snapping as they licked at the broken stone, but there was something wrong. A creeping chill slithered through the cracks, threading its way through the ruins like an unseen serpent. The heat and cold warred against each other, unnatural forces locked in conflict. The air itself trembled, the very foundations of the ruined hall groaning under unseen pressure.

Beside her, Drakarion, fully grown, loomed like a living god of fire and wrath. His black scales gleamed like polished obsidian, the glow of the inferno reflected in the deep crimson of his eyes. His wings, vast and terrible, were partially unfurled, the edges flickering with embers. He let out a slow, warning growl, the deep rumble vibrating through Daenerys' bones as he lowered his massive head and bared his fangs at the figure across from them, his breath steaming in the unnaturally chilled air.

Between them, Visenya stood.

Older. Battle-worn. Blood dripped from the edge of Dark Sister, pooling on the cracked stone beneath her feet. Her silvery hair was longer, strands of it loose and wild, dirt and sweat streaking her pale skin. Her armor, once gleaming, was blackened with soot, dented and scarred from countless battles. And yet she stood tall, unyielding, an indomitable force amidst the ruin. To Daenerys, she was no less beautiful than she had always been—perhaps even more so in the firelight, carved from war itself.

But Visenya was not looking at the shadowed figure she faced. Not entirely. Her stance was steady, sword poised, yet she kept glancing at Daenerys—or past her—toward something deeper within the ruined hall. Her violet eyes flickered with urgency, with warning, as if urging her sister to look, to see what she could not.

The shadowed figure opposite them was indistinct, shifting in shape, its form bleeding into the darkness. It had no face, and yet Daenerys could feel its gaze, piercing and suffocating. The flames recoiled from it, withdrawing as though repelled, the firelight retreating in its presence. Ice crept along the stone, swallowing the warmth, devouring the flames with an unnatural hunger. The presence was cold, powerful, ancient, older than the ruins that crumbled around them.

A voice—

Not a whisper, not a scream, but something resonant, deep, familiar yet unknown. It echoed through the hall, reverberating off the melting walls, filling every corner, every breath of space between them. The words were indistinct, lost in the clash of fire and ice, but the urgency was undeniable.

With the voice came the sound of footsteps—rushing, running toward them. They echoed through the broken hall, hurried, desperate. Someone was coming.

Daenerys turned, her pulse quickening. She wanted to see, to know—but before she could catch even a glimpse—

She woke, gasping, her body jolting upright.

The fire was still burning low beside her, casting a soft, flickering glow against the stone. The warmth of Visenya and their dragons surrounded her, grounding her in the present. The cool night air brushed against her sweat-dampened skin, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

Drakarion, still curled against her, stirred at her sudden movement, lifting his small head to chuff softly, nuzzling against her arm. She absently stroked the ridges of his head, her thoughts spiraling. The dream felt too real, too vivid. Not like an idle imagining—but a vision. A warning.

She swallowed, trying to steady herself. The fire, the ice, the shadow. And Visenya—standing against it, bleeding, but unbowed.

And the voice…

Who had been calling her?

Visenya stirred before she was fully awake, instinctively aware of the shift in Daenerys beside her. The way her breath came too quick, the subtle tensing of her body—it was enough to draw Visenya from sleep before she even understood why. Blinking against the dim firelight, she felt Daenerys shift again, her breath hitching slightly as though caught between the remnants of sleep and the weight of something else.

Without hesitation, Visenya reached out, wrapping her arms around her twin, pulling her close against her warmth. "I'm here," she murmured softly, pressing a kiss to Daenerys’ brow. "You’re safe."

Daenerys let out a breath, deeper this time, though there was still unease in the way she pressed herself against Visenya’s embrace. Her hands curled lightly into the fabric of her sister’s tunic, seeking grounding. The fire was still low beside them, casting their shadows against the stone of the ruins, but it felt different now, as though the night had grown heavier, as if the echoes of her dream still lingered in the air, refusing to fade even as wakefulness took hold.

"You had a dream," Visenya said quietly, sensing the tension lingering in Daenerys’ frame. "Another one?"

Daenerys nodded, her fingers tightening slightly in the fabric before she spoke. "It was clearer than before… more vivid." Her voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it, something that told Visenya this was not just another passing dream.

Visenya exhaled, her hand smoothing along Daenerys’ back in slow, reassuring strokes. She had known for years that Daenerys’ dreams were more than idle imaginings—she had Dragon Dreams, just as those of Valyrian blood before her had. But they were usually fragments, glimpses at best, half-formed and cryptic. For her to call this one clear… it meant something had changed.

"Tell me," Visenya urged gently.

Daenerys hesitated for only a moment before she began to speak, recounting what she had seen—the ruined hall, the fire and ice, the shadowed figure, and Visenya herself, bloodied but unyielding, standing between it and her. She spoke of Drakarion, grown and fierce, his eyes burning with an ancient fire, and the voice calling out, the footsteps running toward them. She described the smell of burnt flesh and the eerie way the flames and ice seemed to battle for dominance over the ruined landscape, the way the air had crackled with something beyond mortal comprehension.

Visenya listened in silence, her fingers still tracing light patterns against Daenerys’ back, absorbing every word. She felt the tremor in Daenerys' breath, the uncertainty behind her words, the lingering unease that came from seeing something that had not yet come to pass but felt all too real. She took in the tension in her sister’s voice, the way her fingers clutched at her tunic as though seeking reassurance not just from words, but from touch.

"I don’t know what it means," Daenerys admitted. "But it felt… real. As though I was there. As though it will happen."

Visenya didn’t answer immediately. She wasn’t one to put too much stock in prophecy, in visions of fate that may or may not come to pass. She had always believed that fate was forged by the choices one made, not predetermined by cryptic visions or old words whispered through generations. But she also knew one thing—Daenerys’ Dragon Dreams were never meaningless. And if this one was different, clearer, then something was changing.

"Did you recognize the voice?" Visenya asked after a long pause. "The one calling out?"

Daenerys frowned slightly, thinking. "No... but it felt familiar, like I should know it. It wasn't you, but it wasn't a stranger either. And the footsteps... they were running toward us, not away."

Visenya hummed in thought. "Perhaps they were coming to help."

Daenerys sighed. "Or coming to warn us."

Visenya pressed another kiss to Daenerys’ brow, tightening her arms around her just slightly. "Then we’ll face it when it comes," she murmured. "Together."

Daenerys let out a slow breath, some of the tension bleeding away as she curled closer into Visenya’s warmth. Her fingers loosened their grip on Visenya’s tunic, and she let herself sink into the embrace, the steady rise and fall of her sister’s breathing grounding her.

The fire crackled softly beside them, the dragons stirring in their sleep, shifting but not waking. Sylveris nuzzled into Visenya’s side, her warmth comforting, while Drakarion huffed softly in his sleep, his tail tightening around Daenerys' wrist.

The night pressed on, but neither twin slept easily after that. Though the dream had ended, its weight remained, lingering in the quiet dark like a promise yet to be fulfilled. Somewhere, in the recesses of their minds, they both knew—this was only the beginning.

 

Chapter 4: IV

Summary:

The long road south, a dance under stars and daggers in the dark.

Notes:

I just want to keep posting chapters for this but must pace myself!

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

IV

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen over the slow-moving waters of the Rhoyne. The river stretched wide and endless, shimmering in the afternoon light, its banks lined with reeds and gnarled old trees whose roots dipped into the water like searching fingers. The air was thick with the scent of fresh water and damp earth, the distant sound of birds echoing across the landscape. The gentle lapping of the current against the banks was a constant backdrop, a rhythmic pulse to their journey.

Visenya rode at the front, her hood drawn low, eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. Her instincts were sharp, honed by the necessity of survival, and she did not trust the apparent peace of the road. Daenerys rode beside her, similarly concealed, her hands gripping the reins tightly as she guided her horse forward. Though her face was hidden by the shadows of her cloak, Visenya could sense her unease. Jorah rode just behind them, his presence steady, his gaze sweeping over the road and the tree line beyond, ever watchful for danger.

The road along the river was well-worn, frequented by traders and fishermen, but they encountered few travelers that day. Most villages along the Rhoyne were small and quiet, built upon the remnants of older ruins swallowed by time and war. The remnants of a greater past lingered in the ruins that dotted the land, overgrown with creeping vines, swallowed by the roots of trees that had claimed the land as their own. The history of the Rhoynar was carved into every stone, whispering forgotten tales to those who knew how to listen.

As they neared a settlement nestled along the banks, they slowed their pace. The village was modest—little more than a scattering of mud-brick houses, wooden fishing boats tied along the river’s edge, and a small market where traders gathered to sell their wares. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, and the scent of roasting fish filled the air, mingling with the sharper smells of dried herbs and damp wood. A few children ran barefoot near the water, their laughter carrying on the breeze, while an elderly woman sat outside one of the houses weaving baskets.

“We should restock what we can,” Jorah said quietly. “Dried rations, fresh water, anything useful.”

Visenya nodded, though her expression remained wary. “We don’t linger,” she murmured. “The more eyes that see us, the more chances for word to spread.”

Daenerys pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “And the dragons?”

Visenya glanced down at the saddlebag strapped in front of her, where Sylveris and Aenryx lay curled, hidden but restless. Daenerys carried Drakarion and Vaelyx in a similar fashion, feeling the occasional shift of movement as the small creatures adjusted themselves. Their tiny claws occasionally gripped the fabric of their saddlebags, testing their confines, but they remained quiet, well-behaved despite their growing curiosity.

“They stay inside for now,” Visenya decided. “We’ll find somewhere secluded later to let them stretch.”

The village had an air of quiet industry about it, people going about their daily tasks without much notice of the three cloaked travelers. They rode into the village at a slow pace, keeping to the edges of the activity. A fisherman carrying a net filled with the day’s catch glanced their way, but his eyes lingered only a moment before returning to his work. The few villagers who noticed them saw nothing more than travelers, their faces shadowed by cloaks, their presence unremarkable.

Jorah dismounted first, moving toward the market to barter for supplies. The smell of salted fish and freshly baked bread drifted from the stalls, and the merchants were already engaged in loud negotiations with buyers. He exchanged a few words with an old man selling dried meats, his tone calm and practiced. Meanwhile, Visenya and Daenerys remained on their horses, their eyes scanning the square, watching, waiting.

It was a quiet place, peaceful, the kind of village untouched by the greater struggles of the world. And yet, Visenya felt the weight of unseen dangers pressing down upon them. There was always risk when stopping in a village, no matter how small. Strangers were noticed, no matter how briefly, and whispers had a way of traveling along the roads faster than even the swiftest horse.

Daenerys exhaled, shifting slightly in her saddle, the tension evident in the way she held herself. “I don’t like staying here,” she murmured.

Visenya’s fingers tightened around her reins. “Neither do I.”

They would not stay here long.

The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows over the village as Visenya tightened the straps of her saddlebag. The last of their supplies had been secured, their water skins refilled, and Jorah was already mounted, watching the road ahead. The air was still, thick with the scent of the river, dried fish, and damp earth. The distant sounds of the market—bartering, the occasional laughter of children playing by the riverbank, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the well-trodden path—filled the space around them, blending into the quiet hum of village life.

Just as Visenya reached for the reins, a sudden gust of wind swept through the narrow street, tugging at her cloak and the headscarf wrapped securely around her hair. The fabric fluttered violently, slipping free before she could react, torn from its careful knot and lifted into the air. For a fleeting moment, it billowed like a banner before fluttering down to the ground at her feet.

A flash of silvery white hair gleamed in the waning sunlight, stark and unmistakable. The fine strands caught the light, shimmering like woven starlight, as brilliant as the Valyrian steel of her blade. It was only for a heartbeat—just long enough for her to lunge down and snatch up the scarf, swiftly wrapping it back into place with practiced efficiency, her movements precise and controlled despite the spike of unease curling in her gut.

But she had seen them. A few villagers had seen her too.

An old man near a fishing stall, his hands stilling over a bundle of nets, his brow furrowed in quiet recognition. A woman balancing a basket of grain on her hip, her eyes narrowing slightly as if piecing together a half-forgotten tale. A young boy, barely ten, stood frozen, staring with wide, unblinking eyes, his lips parted as though he had seen something out of a story whispered in the dark—of dragonlords and fallen kings.

The hush lasted only a moment, fleeting as a breath, before the village returned to its rhythm. The merchants resumed their bartering, the fishermen turned back to their work, and the villagers moved along as if nothing had happened. But Visenya knew better. Some would forget by nightfall, dismissing it as a trick of the light or an illusion conjured by their own minds. Others, however, would remember. Whispers would travel like ripples in a pond, stretching beyond the village, carried by those who listened.

Visenya didn’t speak as she mounted her horse, her fingers steady despite the sharp thrum of unease running beneath her skin. Daenerys, beside her, had caught the motion, the flicker of tension in her twin’s frame. She said nothing, but her grip on her reins tightened, her own wariness mirroring Visenya’s. The connection between them was seamless, unspoken words exchanged in glances, in the way Daenerys subtly shifted closer, an unvoiced question in the way she exhaled.

Jorah, sensing the shift, guided his horse nearer. "What happened?" he asked under his breath, his voice low, careful not to draw attention.

"Nothing," Visenya murmured, urging her horse forward. "Not yet."

Jorah studied her for a moment longer, then gave a brief nod, his expression unreadable. He did not press, but Visenya could tell he had seen more than she had hoped. He was a man who understood the danger of being noticed in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there was no doubt in her mind that he would be watching the road behind them as closely as she would.

They didn’t look back as they left the village behind, but Visenya could feel the weight of lingering eyes on their backs long after they were gone. The scent of the river grew stronger as they neared its banks, the world around them darkening as the sun dipped lower. Still, the sense of unease clung to her, an invisible tether pulling at her spine.

Somewhere behind them, a whisper had been born. A rumor, small and uncertain, but alive. And rumors, Visenya knew, had a way of growing into storms.

They rode hard for hours after leaving the village, the sun sinking lower behind them as they pressed on, determined to put as much distance as possible between themselves and any loose tongues that might spread whispers of silver-haired travelers passing through. The Rhoyne stretched beside them, glistening under the evening light, its waters calm and steady, mirroring the slow return of ease that settled into their group as they finally relaxed their pace.

The scent of fresh water and damp earth filled the air, mingling with the rhythmic sound of hooves on the well-worn road. The tension of the village encounter still lingered in the back of Visenya’s mind, but as the sky darkened to twilight, the steady rocking of the horse and the warmth of her dragon against her chest allowed her to breathe a little easier.

As the horses trotted along at a more comfortable rhythm, Visenya exhaled, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness from the long ride. "They should get some air," she murmured, glancing down at her saddlebag, where Sylveris had been stirring for the past half-hour, clearly growing impatient with her confinement.

Daenerys nodded in agreement, already loosening the straps of the bag where Drakarion rested. "They’ve been patient," she admitted, her tone carrying the affection she always held for their dragons.

With careful hands, the twins pulled their dragons free from their confinement. Sylveris uncurled first, blinking her golden eyes as she stretched, then slithered up Visenya’s arm and perched on her shoulder, wrapping her tail around her neck in a familiar, possessive manner. Vaelyx was next, fidgeting excitedly before launching onto Visenya’s forearm, his sharp eyes already scanning for mischief as his wings flared slightly.

Drakarion wasted no time clawing his way onto Daenerys’ lap, his tail flicking irritably as he shook himself out. Aenryx, graceful as ever, stretched elegantly before gliding up Daenerys' arm, settling lightly on her shoulder with a soft, dignified trill. The contrast between them was striking—Aenryx ever the composed and calculating one, and Drakarion brooding as he glanced between his siblings, unwilling to be outdone.

The dragons, still too young to fly, had begun testing their instincts. They would stretch their wings, flap experimentally, and push off their mothers’ arms or shoulders in an attempt to glide—only to land in awkward sprawls upon the ground or, more often than not, right back into the hands of their riders.

Vaelyx, the most daring of the four, seemed particularly determined. He had been fidgeting for the past hour, wings twitching with restless energy, and the moment he saw an opportunity, he seized it. With an excited trill, he launched himself from Visenya’s shoulder, his small wings spreading wide as he glided through the air.

For a moment, he truly seemed to be flying, the wind catching beneath his wings. His confidence soared along with him.

Until he crashed—straight into Jorah.

The knight let out a startled grunt as Vaelyx’s claws latched onto his chest, his weight unexpectedly enough to knock Jorah completely off balance. With a loud, unceremonious thud, he tumbled backward off his horse, hitting the ground with a heavy groan.

For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence.

Vaelyx, now perched smugly in Jorah’s vacant saddle, blinked down at the knight with a chirp that sounded suspiciously like laughter. His wings flared for a moment before folding neatly at his sides, as though he had planned the entire thing.

Visenya was the first to react. A sharp burst of laughter escaped her, her body shaking so hard that she nearly lost her own balance in the saddle. "By the gods, Vaelyx—what in all the hells was that?!" she managed between gasps.

Daenerys, though more composed, covered her mouth with her hand, trying and failing to stifle her amusement. "Jorah, are you—?"

"Fine," Jorah ground out, pushing himself up, dust clinging to his cloak as he shot an unimpressed glare at the small dragon sitting atop his horse. "Your dragon is a menace."

Vaelyx, entirely unrepentant, let out another smug chirp, as if pleased with his impromptu flight lesson.

Drakarion, who had been watching the entire thing with narrowed eyes, now let out an irritated huff and buried his face into Daenerys' arm, sulking.

"He’s upset," Daenerys observed, stroking along his back soothingly. "He wanted to be the first to fly."

"Then he’d best figure it out soon," Visenya teased, still chuckling as she wiped at the tears of mirth in her eyes. "Because Vaelyx is clearly leading the race."

Jorah muttered something unintelligible under his breath as he climbed back onto his horse, brushing dust from his armor. "I swear, the lot of you will be the death of me."

Visenya only smirked. "Perhaps, but at least you'll go out in the most ridiculous way possible."

As the group resumed their ride, the dragons nestled comfortably once more. Vaelyx remained perched in his stolen saddle for a while longer, basking in his victory, before finally allowing Visenya to retrieve him.

Despite the lingering weight of what had happened in the village, for this moment, there was only laughter, warmth, and the comfort of family, carried on the wind as they continued their journey eastward.

~~

The fire burned low, crackling softly as it sent flickers of golden light dancing against the nearby rocks. Overhead, the sky stretched vast and endless, littered with stars that gleamed like scattered diamonds against the darkness. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of the Rhoyne and the whisper of a distant breeze. The night was still, quiet save for the occasional rustling of leaves or the distant call of some nocturnal bird.

Daenerys sat beside Visenya, their shoulders touching as they shared the warmth of the fire. The dragons had nestled into a small pile nearby, their scales glistening faintly in the moonlight. Sylveris and Vaelyx curled against Visenya’s side, while Aenryx and Drakarion draped themselves around Daenerys, as always seeking her presence. The gentle rise and fall of their tiny bodies as they slept was the only sign that they were truly at rest. Their breathing was slow and rhythmic, their tails occasionally twitching as though dreaming.

Daenerys let out a slow breath, tilting her head back slightly as she gazed up at the sky. "You are always so tense," she murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Even now, when it is just us."

Visenya huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "I am cautious."

Daenerys gave her a knowing look, nudging her playfully. "You are always on edge, ready to draw your sword at the first rustling of leaves. You barely even sit still long enough to enjoy a quiet moment." She smirked. "For once, let yourself enjoy the night. There is no danger here. No one is watching us but the stars."

Visenya rolled her eyes but couldn’t ignore the warmth in Daenerys’ voice, the gentle tease that carried more fondness than criticism. She wanted to argue, to insist that vigilance was necessary, but instead, a different thought struck her. If Daenerys wanted her to relax—if she thought Visenya incapable of it—then perhaps she should prove her wrong.

Without warning, Visenya reached for Daenerys' hand, her fingers wrapping around her twin’s as she stood, pulling her up with a firm but gentle tug. Daenerys let out a soft gasp, caught off guard. "What—?"

Visenya smirked. "If I am to relax, then so must you. Dance with me."

Daenerys' laughter rang out, soft and breathless. "You want to dance?"

"Why not?" Visenya took a step back, still holding Daenerys' hand, coaxing her forward. "You always said I should enjoy the moment. Let’s enjoy it together."

Daenerys hesitated only a moment before she relented, allowing herself to be led. Their feet moved instinctively, falling into a rhythm neither had planned but both understood. The firelight flickered, mixing with the silvery glow of the moon, catching in their hair as they twirled and swayed beneath the open sky. The soft hum of the wind and the distant murmur of the river became their music, the steady thrum of their hearts their tempo.

Visenya guided Daenerys with ease, their movements fluid, natural. When she spun her twin beneath her arm, Daenerys let out another breathless laugh, her violet eyes shimmering with mirth.

"I did not think you knew how to dance," Daenerys teased.

"I didn’t," Visenya admitted, twirling her again. "I’m improvising."

Daenerys’ fingers curled tighter around hers, unwilling to let go. "Then you are a natural."

They moved in close again, their bodies almost touching. The laughter faded into something softer, something neither of them spoke of but both felt pressing against their chests. The world narrowed, the cool night forgotten, the fire a distant warmth compared to the heat building between them.

Visenya’s breath caught as she met Daenerys’ gaze, their faces only inches apart. The way the firelight and moonlight mingled, catching on Daenerys' silver lashes, made her look ethereal—more than a queen, more than a sister.

Daenerys’ fingers lingered against Visenya’s wrist, her touch feather-light, hesitant. "I like seeing you like this," she whispered. "Happy."

Visenya swallowed. "I am always happy with you."

For a long moment, neither moved, neither spoke. The night wrapped around them, the stars bearing silent witness to the pull between them, the quiet way their souls reached for each other. The space between them was charged, electric in a way neither of them fully understood, yet neither wanted to break away from.

A soft chirp from Sylveris broke the moment. The dragons, having woken, watched their mothers with curious, blinking eyes. Vaelyx stretched lazily, tilting his head as if to say, continue, do not mind us. Aenryx let out a small huff, pressing closer to Daenerys, as though she too had sensed the moment and wanted to be part of it.

Daenerys let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "It seems we have an audience."

Visenya smirked, though the warmth in her chest did not fade. "They already know, don’t they?"

Daenerys did not answer, but the way she squeezed Visenya’s hand said enough.

They did not let go.

Their movements slowed, the playful twirls fading into something more intimate. With their hands still clasped, Visenya and Daenerys drew closer, their foreheads touching as they swayed gently in the moonlight. The fire flickered behind them, its glow casting their shadows long against the ground, merging them into one.

The dragons continued to watch, their eyes half-lidded but keen, sensing the shift in their mothers. Sylveris nestled against Vaelyx, her tail curling around his, while Drakarion huffed softly, adjusting his wings as he pressed closer to Aenryx. Though still young, they understood something was unfolding before them—something deeper than words.

Daenerys let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening against Visenya’s. "You feel it too, don’t you?"

Visenya didn’t answer right away, instead closing her eyes and simply existing in the warmth of Daenerys’ presence. She could hear her twin’s breath, feel the soft press of her skin, the rhythmic beat of her heart. She had always felt this pull—this unbreakable tether that tied them together, deeper than blood, deeper than words.

"I do," she finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I always have."

Daenerys exhaled shakily, her other hand coming up to rest lightly against Visenya’s waist. "We were meant to rule together," she murmured. "But it is more than that."

Visenya tilted her head slightly, her nose brushing against Daenerys’, her breath catching for the barest of moments. "It always has been."

The space between them disappeared entirely, the cool night air wrapping around them like a secret. Time felt as if it had stopped, as if the world beyond their small camp no longer existed. There was no war, no throne to reclaim, no past to haunt them—just the quiet certainty that whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.

Their dragons made no move to interrupt, settling comfortably, content in the presence of their mothers. The fire burned lower, its embers casting soft glows against silver hair, as the two sisters remained locked in their slow, steady rhythm, hearts beating as one beneath the stars.

Daenerys let out a breathless laugh as she finally stilled in Visenya’s arms, their bodies still pressed close. "Well," she murmured, her voice soft with lingering warmth, "it seems you can relax after all."

Visenya smirked but didn’t pull away. "Only when you make me."

Daenerys arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps I should make you relax more often, then."

Visenya hummed, her fingers lightly brushing against Daenerys’ back, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin fabric of her tunic. "Perhaps you should."

Neither of them made a move to separate, lingering in the quiet hush of the night, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint rustling of their dragons shifting nearby. The air between them was warm, charged with something unspoken yet understood. Eventually, Daenerys sighed, her forehead still resting against Visenya’s, her breath fanning across her twin’s lips. "We should rest."

Visenya nodded but didn’t let go immediately. Instead, she slid her hand down to Daenerys’ fingers, squeezing them gently before reluctantly pulling back. The warmth lingered, even as they stepped apart. They turned toward their bedrolls, still close as they moved, neither willing to stray far from the other. The flames of the fire flickered low, casting their shadows long against the rock wall, merging as one.

The dragons stirred as their mothers settled down, sensing their moment of rest. Aenryx slinked across Daenerys’ stomach, curling into the crook of her arm, while Drakarion clambered onto her chest, letting out a soft huff before tucking his head beneath his wing. Sylveris, ever watchful, nestled against Visenya’s neck, her tail lazily draping over Vaelyx, who was stretched between them, his small claws gripping onto both of them as though unwilling to be left out of the closeness. The four young dragons instinctively sought the warmth of their mothers, pressing against them as if the bond between them ran deeper than blood, something ancient and unbreakable.

Visenya adjusted the blankets over them, her arm naturally curling around Daenerys as their dragons settled between them. The warmth was comforting, familiar, but it was the presence of Daenerys—her steady breathing, the way her body fit perfectly against hers—that made it feel right.

Daenerys let out a small sigh as she shifted closer, her fingers lightly tracing along Visenya’s forearm before settling over her wrist. "I feel safe with you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Visenya closed her eyes at those words, at the weight they carried. "And I with you."

She could feel Daenerys’ heart beating against her own, steady and certain. They had faced so much together, endured exile, fear, uncertainty. Yet here, in the stillness of the night, beneath the vast sky that had seen them born, they were simply themselves . Not queens, not the last of House Targaryen—just two souls intertwined, drawn to each other as naturally as the tide met the shore.

The fire crackled softly, the only witness to their unspoken promise. Visenya exhaled slowly, tilting her head until her temple rested against Daenerys'. Their fingers remained entwined between the dragons, the steady rhythm of their breathing lulling them toward sleep.

"No matter what comes," Daenerys murmured, her voice thick with the pull of exhaustion, "we stay together."

Visenya’s grip on her tightened slightly. "Always."

The night wrapped around them like a protective veil, and as sleep slowly began to pull them under, Visenya let herself hold onto this moment, this peace, this certainty. Whatever storms lay ahead, whatever trials they would face, they would face them together.

And in this moment, surrounded by the ones they loved most, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

~~

The night was quiet, the surface of Dagger Lake shimmering under the moonlight, its dark waters stretching into the distance. The fire burned low, casting flickering embers into the air, its warmth a faint comfort against the cool night breeze. The twins lay close, their dragons curled between them, their steady breathing blending with the soft sounds of the wilderness.

Then, a shift in the air—a breath too heavy, a step too cautious—something was wrong.

Before even waking fully, Sylveris let out a low, warning hiss, her snowy white body with black spots tensing as her amber eyes snapped open. Drakarion followed suit, his head lifting sharply, a guttural growl rumbling from deep within his chest. The sudden agitation of the dragons sent a ripple through the others, Aenryx stirring and Vaelyx’s tail flicking as he hissed at the unseen threat.

Visenya’s eyes snapped open. She moved before she fully understood, instinct overriding thought as she surged to her feet, her hand already wrapping around the hilt of Dark Sister. In the dim glow of the fire, the Valyrian steel caught the light, the flickering flames making it seem as though the blade was forged from fire itself.

Shadows moved at the edge of the camp—three, no, four figures, slipping through the darkness with deadly intent. Assassins.

The first lunged at Visenya, a dagger flashing toward her throat. She twisted, her movements sharp and precise, Dark Sister slicing upward. The blade cleaved through the soft flesh of his wrist, severing the hand that held the dagger. A scream split the night, but it was cut short as she drove her sword through his chest, the steel sliding between his ribs, piercing his heart. Blood gushed from his mouth, bubbling as he crumpled to the ground, twitching in his final moments before stilling forever.

Daenerys jolted awake at the chaos, her breath ragged as she scrambled up, reaching for the small dagger she kept beneath her bedroll. One of the assassins lunged for her, but Drakarion struck first, latching onto his face with his small but razor-sharp claws. The man howled, clawing at the dragon as crimson streaked down his cheeks, his eyes wide with agony. Daenerys didn’t hesitate—she stepped forward and drove her dagger into his exposed throat, twisting the blade. Blood sprayed across her hands, warm and slick, as the assassin collapsed, gurgling on his own lifeblood, his body convulsing as he gasped for air that would never come.

The remaining two hesitated, clearly reassessing their odds, but hesitation in battle was fatal.

Visenya moved with lethal efficiency. The third man swung a short sword at her, but she sidestepped, the movement effortless. She slashed at his side, Dark Sister cutting through cloth, muscle, and bone with horrifying ease. His scream was guttural, but Visenya did not relent. She whirled, reversing her grip, and plunged her blade into his stomach, driving it in to the hilt before ripping it free. His entrails spilled out onto the dirt, steam rising into the cool night air as he collapsed, gasping his final breath, his hands weakly trying to push his own guts back inside before he stilled.

The last assassin turned to flee, but Jorah Mormont was already upon him. The knight struck hard and fast, his sword cutting into the assassin’s shoulder, nearly cleaving the arm from his body. The man stumbled, shrieking in pain, his severed arm hanging by the last threads of flesh and sinew, but before he could cry out again, Sylveris lunged. The dragon’s fangs clamped down onto his exposed throat, ripping it open in a spray of hot, pulsing blood. He gargled for a moment, hands clawing at his torn flesh, before crumpling in the dirt, his lifeblood soaking the ground in thick, pooling crimson.

Silence settled over the camp, thick with the scent of blood and death.

The final assassin, barely clinging to life, lay at Visenya’s feet, his body trembling, one of his legs nearly severed from Vaelyx’s claws. He gasped, his chest rising and falling unevenly, eyes wild with fear. She knelt, pressing Dark Sister against his throat, her voice like ice. "Who sent you?"

The man’s lips trembled, his eyes darting between them, then to the dragons, their eyes burning like molten gold, their wings flaring as they hissed.

"A name," Visenya pressed, pressing the blade just enough to draw a thin line of blood down his already sweat-slicked neck.

"R-Robert Baratheon," he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Daenerys stiffened beside Visenya, her breath hitching. The betrayal was sharp, but not unexpected. The Usurper had always feared their family, feared their blood. He had sent these men, seeking to end the last of the Targaryens before they could rise.

Visenya’s expression didn’t change. "Then you have no use to us."

Before the man could plead further, Dark Sister flashed through the air, cutting cleanly across his throat. Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering across Visenya’s arms and chest. The assassin gargled once before his body went limp, his head lolling unnaturally to the side as he crumpled beside his fallen companions, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the night sky.

Daenerys exhaled, her body shuddering slightly as she wiped her bloodstained hands on the edge of her cloak, her dagger still slick with crimson. She turned to Visenya, her violet eyes dark with understanding.

"He won’t stop," Daenerys whispered, her voice quiet but certain. "He’ll send more."

Visenya turned, reaching out, her fingers brushing against Daenerys' wrist before curling around her hand, grounding her. "Then we make sure we are ready."

Jorah, standing beside them, let out a heavy breath, his sword still dripping with blood. "This will not be the last attempt. He will not stop until he believes you are no longer a threat."

Daenerys nodded slowly, and as their dragons gathered close, their warmth pressing against their legs, the twins understood without words—

There would be no more running. Only fire and blood.

The scent of blood still hung thick in the air, mingling with the dying embers of their campfire. The ground was slick with the remains of their battle, bodies crumpled where they had fallen, the dirt beneath them darkened by the pooling blood. The night had not yet regained its silence; the dragons still hissed softly, their wings flicking as they watched the aftermath of the fight, sensing the tension that still crackled in the air like the last embers of a dying fire.

With the adrenaline ebbing away, Daenerys barely registered what she was doing before she threw herself at Visenya, her arms locking tight around her twin. Her breath was ragged, her body trembling, but she clung to Visenya as though letting go would mean losing herself to the horror of what had just happened. She needed to feel the steadiness of her sister, needed to know that she wasn’t alone in the aftermath of the bloodshed. Her hands fisted into the back of Visenya’s tunic, her nails digging in just enough to ground herself, to remind herself that her twin was warm, breathing, alive.

Her face pressed against the curve of Visenya’s neck, warm skin against warm skin, her grip tightening as if seeking to anchor herself to the only thing that had ever felt steady—Visenya. A shuddering breath left her lips, but no words followed. There were no words for the weight pressing down on her chest, the cold realization of what she had just done. The rush of the fight had blocked out the enormity of it, but now, with the silence settling in, the images played over and over in her mind. The way the man had gasped, the way his eyes had widened in terror just before she had plunged the blade into his throat, the wet gurgle of his dying breath as blood poured between her fingers.

Visenya stood firm, one hand gripping Dark Sister still slick with crimson, the other moving to cradle Daenerys close. Her own heartbeat was still pounding in her ears, but Daenerys' tremors brought her focus away from the dead and back to the living—to the sister she had sworn to protect. She could feel the way Daenerys’ chest hitched against her, the quiet sob she tried to swallow down, but Visenya only tightened her hold, offering her silent reassurance, the way she always had.

"It’s over," Visenya murmured, her voice low, soothing. "You’re safe."

Daenerys gave a weak nod against her skin but did not pull away. Her fingers curled tighter into the fabric of Visenya’s tunic, gripping so tightly it was as if she feared she might be ripped away.

"I killed him," she whispered, her voice hollow, barely audible over the night’s stillness. "I killed him, Visenya. He was alive, and then—"

Her breath hitched again, and a soft sob escaped her before she could stop it, her shoulders shaking as she pressed herself further against her twin.

Visenya tightened her arms around Daenerys, pressing her lips against the top of her head in a lingering gesture of comfort. "You did what you had to," she said, her voice unwavering but gentle. "If you hadn’t, he would have killed you."

"But I still—" Daenerys swallowed hard, her entire body quivering now, the enormity of it all hitting her in waves. "He looked at me, and I saw the fear in his eyes, and then—gods, Visenya, there was so much blood."

Visenya let out a slow breath, brushing Daenerys' hair back, her touch as steady as her voice. "I know," she admitted softly. "The first time is always the hardest."

Daenerys shifted slightly, tilting her head up to look at her sister, her violet eyes shining with unshed tears. "Does it ever stop feeling like this?"

Visenya was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently, she shook her head. "No. Not completely. But it does get easier. And it should never be easy, Dany. If it ever feels easy, then we’ve lost something we can’t get back."

Daenerys took a shaky breath, pressing her forehead against Visenya’s collarbone. "I don’t want to lose myself."

Visenya rested her chin against Daenerys’ head, her grip unrelenting. "You won’t. Not while I’m here."

They stood like that for a long while, the battlefield around them forgotten, the blood at their feet unimportant. There was only the warmth between them, the steady anchor that had always held them together. And though the night still smelled of death, of steel and blood, Daenerys let herself breathe, let herself take in the one thing that had never changed—Visenya’s arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

The dragons, still curled close, finally began to settle, sensing that the worst had passed. Sylveris let out a soft, warbling sound, pressing her small body against Daenerys’ side, while Drakarion butted his head against Visenya’s arm, his golden eyes blinking slowly in understanding.

For a long while, they just breathed, the warmth of each other the only thing grounding them amidst the cold, the blood, and the knowledge of what they had done. And as the night stretched on, with death lingering in the air and their dragons pressed tightly to their sides, Visenya knew one thing with absolute certainty—

No matter what came next, she would never let Daenerys face it alone.

Visenya and Daenerys forced themselves into motion. The warmth of their shared embrace lingered, but there was no more time to rest. They needed to move, to put as much distance between themselves and the carnage they left behind. The bodies of the assassins lay cooling in the dirt, their lifeless eyes staring into the void, but their deaths would not go unnoticed for long. Dawn would come, and with it, discovery.

With a silent agreement, they set to work, quickly repacking their camp. Their hands moved with practiced efficiency, though Daenerys' fingers still trembled slightly as she rolled up the bedding. The fire was kicked out, the embers glowing weakly before dying entirely, leaving only darkness and the cold reminder of what had just transpired. The dragons, sensing their mothers' unease, rustled in their bags, their small claws gripping the fabric as if they, too, were reluctant to remain in such a place any longer.

Jorah worked in silence beside them, his expression grim, his sword still slick with drying blood. He wiped it clean with a torn scrap of cloth before sheathing it, but the lines on his face were deep, his thoughts unreadable. His gaze flickered toward Visenya once, but whatever words he considered saying remained unspoken. He, too, knew they had no time to dwell.

Visenya tightened the straps on their saddlebags, glancing around the clearing with narrowed eyes. How had the assassins found them? They had taken care to cover their tracks, avoided lingering too long in one place, and yet, the enemy had closed in on them with deadly precision. The thought sent a chill creeping down her spine. Had someone seen them at the last village? Had whispers of silver-haired travelers been enough to draw Robert Baratheon's hunters? Or worse—was there a traitor lurking in the shadows, feeding their movements to their enemies?

"We should go," she said finally, her voice steady but edged with a quiet urgency. The weight of Dark Sister was reassuring against her hip, but unease still coiled in her chest. She turned to Daenerys, who nodded, mounting her horse with only a brief hesitation. Visenya followed suit, settling into the saddle, keeping her sword close and her senses sharp. The dragons, still too young to fly great distances, were tucked safely into their makeshift bags, peering out with wary, golden eyes, their small bodies radiating warmth against their mothers’ sides.

Jorah mounted his own horse, scanning the horizon before looking back at them. "We ride west. We can’t risk staying near the main roads. If they found us once, they’ll be looking for us again."

Visenya nodded, but her mind was already elsewhere, replaying the attack over and over. It wasn’t just that the assassins had found them—it was how quickly they had done so. Someone had given them information. Someone had known exactly where they would be. But who?

The thought gnawed at her as they spurred their horses forward, their pace quick but cautious. The night stretched before them, the stars dim behind the rolling clouds, and with every mile they put between themselves and the blood-stained campsite, Visenya couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.

They rode in tense silence, the only sounds the rhythmic pounding of hooves against dirt and the distant whisper of wind through the trees. The sky was still dark, but the faintest traces of dawn were beginning to bleed across the horizon, staining it a muted purple and orange. They had ridden for nearly an hour before Daenerys finally spoke, her voice quiet, but firm. "Do you think someone told them where we were?"

Visenya exhaled through her nose, her grip tightening on the reins. "I don’t know. But it’s too much of a coincidence."

Daenerys glanced sideways at her, concern clear in her violet eyes. "Then what do we do? Keep running?"

Visenya sighed. "For now."

Daenerys' fingers curled into the fabric of her cloak, her jaw tightening. "I hate this. Running, hiding. It’s what Viserys made us do all our lives. We are not meant to be prey, Visenya. We are dragons."

Visenya turned her head slightly, studying her twin in the dim light. There was fire in Daenerys' gaze now, a slow-burning ember that had been lit the moment she had taken her first life. It would not be snuffed out so easily. And in truth, Visenya agreed. They could not run forever.

She reached for Daenerys’ hand briefly, squeezing it just once before letting go. "We will not run forever, Dany. But we have to be smart."

Daenerys gave a small nod, her fingers brushing briefly over the bag where Drakarion lay nestled. "Then let’s be smart, but let’s also be ready. The next time they come for us, I don’t want to feel like a hunted animal."

Visenya allowed herself a small smile. "Good. Hold onto that. We will need it."

The silence that followed was no longer as tense as before. It was filled with unspoken understanding, with the quiet determination of two sisters who knew that this was only the beginning of the war they would have to fight. The real danger was still ahead, lurking just beyond the horizon, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But this time, they would be ready.

The road stretched endlessly before them, the uneven dirt path winding through the landscape, edged by gnarled trees and mist-laden marshes. The air was heavy with moisture, and the chirping of insects filled the silence between hoofbeats. The oppressive weight of exhaustion settled over them like a second skin, but none of them dared to stop for long.

They rode hard, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the site of the ambush. The memory of steel clashing, the wet crunch of flesh being torn, and the scent of blood still clung to them like a specter. For the past few nights, sleep had been fleeting—broken by the restless stirrings of their dragons and the ever-present tension that someone else might be coming for them.

Visenya barely allowed herself to rest. Even when they set up their camp in secluded spots off the road, she found herself waking at the slightest rustle of the wind or shift in the horses’ breathing. Her hand remained ever close to Dark Sister, fingers twitching toward the hilt whenever she sensed the night stirring unnaturally around them. Daenerys, too, was restless, though she did not speak of it aloud. Instead, she curled close to Visenya in the quiet hours of the night, their dragons tucked between them, sharing their warmth and their unspoken anxieties.

Jorah, ever watchful, kept to the edges of their makeshift camps, his sword at his side, his gaze always scanning the darkness. He was a soldier, worn and weary, but he had seen enough in his years to know they were not yet safe.

As the days passed, the terrain began to shift. The trees grew sparser, their twisted forms looming like ancient sentinels over the road. The earth beneath them darkened, thick with moisture, and the very air itself seemed to hum with an eerie stillness. The road ahead curved sharply, leading toward a vast expanse of waterways interwoven like a spider’s web—the beginning of the Sorrows.

The Sorrows. A place of legend, whispered in hushed tones by travelers and feared by those who knew its history. A land where the ruins of the Rhoynar still stood, their broken structures slowly being swallowed by the rivers and the reeds. A land where the afflicted were said to wander, their minds lost to the endless sickness that clung to the water itself.

Visenya slowed her horse, her gaze shifting to the murky horizon. "We’ll be in the Sorrows soon," she murmured, mostly to herself, but the words carried enough weight to still the conversation among them.

Daenerys’ grip tightened on her reins as she glanced toward the distant, mist-shrouded ruins. "Is it true? What they say about this place?"

Jorah exhaled slowly. "The Sorrows is a graveyard, Princess. Those who enter rarely leave unchanged. If they leave at all."

A hush fell over them as they continued forward, the oppressive air of the land settling over them like a heavy cloak. Even their dragons, who had been restless in their pouches, had gone eerily silent, their golden eyes flickering with something unreadable as they took in the approaching land.

Visenya exhaled, shifting in her saddle. "Then let’s hope we aren’t the next souls claimed by it."

With that, they pressed onward, toward the mist-choked ruins and the whispers of those long dead.

Chapter 5: V

Summary:

Through the Sorrows and arrival at Volantis

Notes:

Wooo! Magic time and dragon puppies!

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

V

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The night sky stretched endlessly above them, an ocean of stars shimmering in the inky darkness. A cool breeze rustled the reeds nearby, carrying with it the distant murmur of water shifting through the marshes. The world felt hushed, as though even the land itself dared not disturb their moment of peace. It was a rare thing, to have such quiet, and Visenya found herself savoring it, committing it to memory, for she knew too well how fleeting peace could be.

Visenya lay on her back, her arm draped loosely around Daenerys, holding her close as though grounding them both to the moment. Their dragons rested against them, tiny bodies rising and falling with each soft breath. Sylveris was curled protectively against Visenya’s chest, her white-and-black-speckled scales glimmering faintly in the moonlight, while Drakarion nestled on Daenerys, his small form pressed against the warmth of his mother’s heartbeat. Aenryx and Vaelyx sprawled lazily across their legs, tails flicking idly as they dozed, small puffs of smoke rising from their nostrils every so often.

Neither twin spoke for a long while. There was no need for words, not when the quiet of the night wrapped around them so completely. Instead, they simply stared upward, gazing at the stars that had guided their ancestors across the sky. The constellations were different here than they had been in Westeros, yet something about them still felt familiar. A reminder that no matter how far they traveled, they were still beneath the same sky. That thought brought a strange sense of comfort, as if the universe itself had not yet abandoned them.

Daenerys sighed softly, tilting her head just enough to glance at Visenya. "Do you ever wonder what waits for us beyond all of this? Beyond the roads, the ruins, the battles we keep finding ourselves in?"

Visenya hummed in thought, tightening her embrace slightly. "I try not to think too far ahead," she admitted. "It’s dangerous to dwell on what we cannot see. But..." She hesitated for a moment, then continued, "I do wonder what the world would look like if we could carve a place of our own in it. Somewhere safe. Somewhere we don’t have to keep running."

Daenerys smiled faintly, shifting to rest her head against Visenya’s shoulder. "A home."

"A home," Visenya echoed, the word feeling foreign yet right on her tongue. They had never truly known one, not in the way others did. But perhaps, together, they could make one for themselves. A place where they were not beholden to anyone, not Viserys, not Illyrio, not the whims of lords or kings. A place where they ruled themselves, where no one could tell them what they should be.

A quiet sigh escaped Daenerys, her breath warm against Visenya’s collarbone. "Do you think we’ll ever find it? A place where we won’t have to fight just to be?"

Visenya considered the question. She wanted to say yes, to offer Daenerys certainty where there was none. But she had learned long ago that the world was cruel, and the kindest thing she could do for her twin was not to lie. "If we don’t find it, we’ll make it," she said instead. "With fire and blood if we must."

Daenerys gave a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it, only the weight of understanding. "Then I suppose we’d best start looking."

The stars above continued to glimmer, their silent watchful eyes offering no answers, only the promise of countless possibilities yet to come. The dragons stirred, shifting in their sleep, as if sensing the quiet determination settling between their mothers. Wrapped in each other's warmth, Visenya and Daenerys lay nestled together, their dragons curled into the spaces between them, their small bodies a comforting weight against their skin.

The cool night air whispered across their exposed faces, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating between them. Visenya held Daenerys close, the steady rhythm of her twin’s breath against her collarbone a quiet reassurance. This was their world, a fragile pocket of peace carved out amid the chaos that seemed to follow them at every turn. Here, beneath the stars, nothing else mattered. Not their past, not the uncertainty of their future—only this moment, only each other.

Daenerys sighed softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns along Visenya’s arm, as if committing the feel of her to memory. There was a vulnerability in her touch, unspoken yet deeply understood. They had only ever had each other, through every storm and shadow that had tried to pull them apart. The rest of the world may have been shifting around them, but this— this —was constant.

Visenya exhaled, letting her cheek rest against the top of Daenerys’s head, the scent of her filling her senses. She smelled like fire and the faint salt of the road, and beneath it, something that was simply Daenerys . It was a scent Visenya had known all her life, a comfort she had never once been without, nor did she ever wish to be. Her fingers stroked soothing circles along Daenerys’s spine, offering silent reassurance in return.

"Rest, Dany," she murmured, her voice thick with quiet affection. "I’ll keep you safe."

Daenerys hummed in response, the softest of sounds, her breath warm against Visenya’s throat. She believed her. There was no need for grand declarations, no need for more words. They had spent their entire lives reading each other in ways no one else could understand. And in this moment, Daenerys felt something she rarely did—safe. More than that, she felt whole .

The dragons stirred in their sleep, shifting and pressing closer, their small claws gripping fabric and skin as if they too sought reassurance. Sylveris nestled deeper against Visenya’s chest, while Drakarion curled his tail possessively around Daenerys’s wrist. Aenryx and Vaelyx sprawled between them, their small wings fluttering in their dreams, a soft, contented chuff escaping one of them.

As sleep slowly claimed Daenerys, she burrowed closer into her twin’s embrace, sighing in contentment. Visenya watched her for a long moment, brushing a few strands of silver hair from Daenerys’s face, memorizing every delicate feature softened by slumber. There was something almost sacred about this moment, something she wished she could freeze in time. For all the dangers they had faced, for all the battles that still lay ahead, this—this was what she fought for.

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to her sister’s forehead, lingering just a moment longer.

"Dream sweet, dragonheart."

Daenerys murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, a tiny, peaceful sound that made Visenya smile. She tightened her hold around her twin, allowing the weight of exhaustion to finally pull her under, the warmth of Daenerys and their dragons wrapped around her. As the stars burned on above them, they slept as they always had—curled together, unshaken, unbroken, and utterly inseparable.

~~

The morning air was thick with mist as they broke camp, the world around them cast in an eerie, pale light. The Sorrows loomed ahead, its twisted ruins and stagnant waters promising only ghosts and decay. The land itself felt wrong—silent in a way that was unnatural, the absence of birdsong or rustling leaves pressing down upon them like an invisible weight, as if the very air carried the whispers of the dead.

Visenya tightened the straps of her saddle, fingers brushing along the hilt of Dark Sister as her sharp eyes scanned the shifting fog. The horses were restless, their ears flicking in unease, their hooves hesitant on the damp earth. Even their dragons, normally full of playful curiosity, remained unnervingly still within their pouches. Their small, warm bodies were tucked safely away, but their golden eyes blinked wide and watchful, sensing the unease in their mothers. Even Sylveris, ever the defiant and bold one, pressed against Visenya's side as she mounted her horse, a rare sign of her own discomfort.

Torches were lit, their flames flickering unnaturally in the still, humid air, casting long and twisting shadows over the waterlogged ground. Each movement felt amplified, each breath louder than it should have been. A cold dread clung to the air, as if they were intruding upon something ancient and forgotten.

"Jorah, take the rear," Visenya instructed, her voice steady but sharp, cutting through the thick air. "Watch our backs."

Jorah gave a stiff nod, guiding his horse behind them, his sword already drawn. His grip on the reins was tight, knuckles pale beneath his gauntlets. He had heard the tales of the Sorrows, of what haunted these lands, and though he was no coward, there was an undeniable weight in his gaze as he surveyed the path ahead.

Visenya took the front, Dark Sister resting across her lap, its dark steel catching the faint glow of the torches. The Valyrian blade, a relic of kings and warriors long past, felt strangely at home in a place like this, a reminder that steel and fire had once carved out legends from the ruins of history.

Between them, Daenerys rode with careful precision, her gaze flickering between the mist and the fragile bundles tucked close to her chest. She held the reins loosely, allowing her horse to pick its way carefully along the uneven terrain, her entire body taut with quiet vigilance. Her fingers traced over the smooth, scaled hides of their dragons, whispering soft reassurances. They could not yet understand words, but they understood touch, and they pressed closer to her warmth.

The road ahead was barely a path now, more remnants of broken stone swallowed by creeping moss and stagnant pools of water. The deeper they rode, the thicker the mist became, curling like ghostly fingers around their torches. The world felt muffled, distant, as if something unseen watched from the ruins, just beyond the edge of their vision.

"Stay close to me," Visenya murmured over her shoulder. "If anything moves that shouldn’t, we turn and ride hard."

Daenerys met her gaze, nodding once. There was no fear in her violet eyes, only a quiet resolve. "I won’t let anything happen to them."

Visenya knew she meant it. Daenerys, who had been forced to grow into steel by fire, was no longer the girl who let others decide her fate. There was strength in her words, an unshakable promise.

The Sorrows loomed before them, vast and broken, swallowed by time and memory. Visenya exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the reins.

"Then let’s hope we aren’t the next souls claimed by this place."

And so, together, they pressed forward, their torches flickering against the endless mist, into the forgotten echoes of a world that had long since died.

The Sorrows stretched before them, an expanse of forgotten ruins and stagnant waters that swallowed sound and light alike. The mist thickened, clinging to their skin and filling their lungs with the damp scent of rot and decay. Broken structures loomed out of the fog, remnants of a time long past, their crumbling facades half-consumed by creeping moss and vines. Shadows pooled in the hollows of shattered doorways, watching silently as they rode through the ancient, forsaken city.

The silence was oppressive, pressing in on them from all sides, disturbed only by the faint trickle of unseen water and the distant creak of something shifting in the ruins. No birdsong, no insects—just the slow decay of a place lost to time, where even nature itself had forgotten to reclaim what once belonged to the living. The damp air seemed to weigh on their shoulders, the ghostly whispers of history trailing after their every step.

Then came the figures.

At first, they seemed like statues, hunched and twisted, blending into the desolate remains of the city. Only when the mist thinned slightly did the truth become clear. The Stone Men.

Their skin was mottled, hardened with the telltale ridges of greyscale, their bodies stiff and unnatural. They stood or crouched in forgotten alleyways and beneath broken archways, their clouded, vacant eyes following the riders in eerie silence. Some twitched, as though struggling to move, others simply sat unmoving, staring into nothingness. It was impossible to tell how many of them were aware, if any at all, or if they were simply remnants of souls long lost to the sickness that consumed them. Their ragged breaths and the occasional clatter of their stiff limbs shifting were the only sounds in the choking quiet.

Visenya tightened her grip on Dark Sister, her gaze never leaving the shifting forms in the mist. Daenerys, at her side, held the reins tighter, her body rigid with unease. The dragons stirred in their pouches, sensing their mothers’ tension, their tiny talons flexing against fabric, small, uneasy warbles escaping them. Even Sylveris, who was usually the boldest, remained unnervingly still, her tiny head pressed against Visenya’s chest.

Jorah rode just behind them, his eyes dark as he studied the wretched figures that dotted the ruins. "They don’t always attack," he murmured lowly, as if raising his voice might wake the city’s dead. "Some are too far gone to do anything but watch. Others..."

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. They all knew the stories. The Stone Men that still had enough presence of mind to lunge at the living, desperate to spread their sickness. Some claimed they acted on old memories of life, shadows of former instincts urging them forward even as their minds crumbled.

They continued forward, passing beneath the shattered remnants of an archway that must have once been grand. The mist coiled around its broken edges, hiding whatever had once been carved there. Ahead, the ruins stretched toward the ruined Bridge of Dreams, its broken span jutting out over the blackened water like the rib bones of some ancient beast. The bridge, once said to have been built in devotion to a love long forgotten, now stood in defiance of time, eroded and broken.

And then, the silence was broken.

A rasping noise, low and gurgling. Then another. The scrape of movement against stone.

From the shadows, two figures lunged.

Stone Men—these not so far gone as the others—moved with twisted purpose, their fingers curled into claw-like grips, their breath ragged and wet. They had no weapons, only their own diseased hands, but that alone was enough to make them dangerous.

Visenya reacted first. Dark Sister flashed in the dim light, a clean, fluid arc slicing through the mist. The first Stone Man fell without a sound, the weight of his ruined body sending up a plume of dust as he crumpled to the ground, his stone-like flesh splitting where the Valyrian steel bit through it.

The second reached for Daenerys, his fingers outstretched toward her arm, but before he could make contact, Jorah’s blade cut him down from the side, steel biting through brittle flesh and hardened disease. The body spasmed, then went still, collapsing into the wet earth with a sickening thud, the impact sending ripples through a nearby puddle.

Silence returned, heavier than before. The remaining Stone Men in the distance did not react. They simply stood, watching, their faces blank, their minds lost.

Daenerys exhaled, glancing at the unmoving bodies. "We should keep moving."

Visenya nodded, flicking the blood from her blade, the dark droplets spattering against the cracked stones beneath them. "Agreed."

The mist thickened as they rode deeper into the Sorrows, the oppressive silence stretching unbearably between them. The ruins around them seemed to close in, their once-proud structures long since crumbled into skeletal remains. The deeper they ventured, the more they saw them.

The Stone Men.

At first, they appeared only in scattered groups, hunched figures watching from the edges of the mist, their diseased, hardened flesh a grotesque mimicry of armor. But soon, they began to move—at first sluggishly, as if stirred by some unseen force, then with a growing, unnatural urgency. They shambled from the ruins, crawling out from collapsed archways and shadowed alleyways, their vacant, clouded eyes locking onto the travelers. Their movements were erratic, jerky, as though their minds had long since lost all control over their limbs.

A low rasping sound filled the air, dry and hollow, a grotesque chorus of voices long stripped of reason. It was an eerie, wretched sound, like the last remnants of humanity clawing to be heard through throats that could no longer form words. There were too many now. More than before. More than there should be.

Visenya reined in her horse, her grip tightening on Dark Sister as she assessed the growing numbers ahead. Daenerys kept close, her own horse shifting uneasily beneath her as she instinctively clutched the bags holding their dragons. The creatures within let out small, worried noises, sensing the unease in their mothers. Jorah was already gripping his sword, eyes darting around them, muscles tensed, preparing for what was inevitable.

Then they surged.

It was as if some unseen signal had been given. The Stone Men lunged from all sides, clawed fingers outstretched, their bodies moving with twisted, jerking movements that made them seem less human and more like the specters of a broken world. They made no sound beyond the rasping breaths and the sickening crack of stone-like skin shifting against itself.

Visenya’s blade was already flashing, cutting through the first that reached them, the Valyrian steel slicing through diseased flesh like parchment. The severed body hit the ground with a wet, lifeless thud. But for every one that fell, more came. Too many. The air grew thick with the stench of rot and decay, and the fog made it difficult to tell how many were advancing from the ruined alleys.

"Visenya!" Daenerys called, panic just beneath the surface of her voice. "There are too many!"

She knew. She could see it.

Visenya hadn’t used her magic often since being reborn into this world, not beyond small things—enough to know it was still there, but different. She had no wand, nor did she seem to need one. The magic responded to her in a way that was unfamiliar, raw and wild, more instinct than structured casting. It felt like a pulse under her skin, an untamed force waiting to be called upon.

There was no time to hesitate. She could feel the power coiling within her, waiting.

She inhaled sharply, feeling the heat rise in her blood, her body thrumming with a force that had been dormant for too long. Drawing that power into herself, she reached deep, past fear, past hesitation. Her voice rose in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue flowing from her lips with the weight of command, as natural as breathing.

"Dracarys!"

Flames erupted from her outstretched hands, an arc of fire sweeping out in a wide, blistering wave. The moment it touched the Stone Men, their already brittle, diseased bodies ignited, their screams cut short as they were consumed. The fire roared through them, scorching the ground, licking up the ruins like a beast unleashed. The mist parted in the wake of the inferno, the sickly scent of burning flesh and disease filling the air. The heat was immense, suffocating in its intensity, casting flickering shadows over the ruined city.

The horses reared, frightened by the sudden eruption of fire, but Visenya held firm, her grip unyielding as she guided the flames until there was nothing left of the attackers but smoldering embers and the scent of charred death. The once-writhing bodies were now only twisted husks, blackened and still, their stone-like skin shattered by the heat.

The Sorrows fell silent once more, save for the crackling remnants of fire.

Jorah was staring at her, his sword still raised but forgotten in his grip. Even Daenerys was looking at her differently, awe and something else flickering behind her violet eyes.

The dragons, stirred by the fire’s warmth, poked their heads out from their hiding places, their small, scaled bodies chuffing softly in recognition. Sylveris let out a delighted chirp as if in approval.

Visenya exhaled, her body trembling from the force of the magic. She had never needed a wand here. She had never needed anything but herself. And that, she realized, made her magic far more powerful than it had ever been before.

She turned to Daenerys, who was still staring at her, lips parted slightly in stunned silence.

"We keep moving," Visenya said, her voice steady despite the fire still burning in her veins.

No one argued. They urged their horses forward, leaving the scorched ruins behind, the mist closing in once more around them, as if trying to erase what had just transpired. But the Sorrows would remember, as would they.

They rode on in silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of hooves against the damp earth. The Sorrows lay behind them, yet its presence clung to them like a specter, unseen but inescapable. Though they had left behind its mist-choked ruins, the memory of what they had seen and done within lingered in the marrow of their bones. The air here was lighter, the oppressive fog finally retreating, but none of them could fully breathe as if the weight of that place had sunk too deep inside them to be shaken off so easily.

The morning light was weak, a pale grey that filtered through the overcast sky, offering little warmth. Visenya rode at the front, her grip firm on the reins, her posture rigid. Every muscle in her body remained taut, as if she expected more hands of stone to reach from the ground and drag them back. The remnants of fire still tingled in her fingertips, the echo of its heat coiling in her chest. It had answered her so easily, as though it had always been waiting. The knowledge unsettled her more than the power itself.

Beside her, Daenerys rode quietly, her violet eyes flickering toward Visenya every so often, watching, waiting. There was something in her gaze—concern, awe, and perhaps a deep worry that gnawed at her, not fear of Visenya, but fear for her. She had seen what that power could do, how it had surged forth as if answering a call long overdue. She did not doubt her twin, nor did she shrink from her, but she worried what it would cost Visenya, how it might change her. But she said nothing. And Visenya did not break the silence between them. Not yet.

Jorah took up the rear, his expression unreadable. He had seen many strange and terrible things, but never had he witnessed fire conjured by human hands. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself, his face lined with contemplation as they rode onward.

The dragons stirred within their pouches, sensing the unease in their mothers. Drakarion let out a low, dissatisfied growl, pressing his snout against Daenerys’s hand where it rested on the saddle. She ran her fingers along the ridges of his back, a silent reassurance. Aenryx and Vaelyx shifted, their small claws flexing against the fabric of their carriers, restless but obedient. Sylveris, the most attuned to Visenya, had abandoned her pouch entirely and now curled around the back of her neck like a living scarf, the occasional puff of warm breath ghosting against her ear.

They rode without pause, the ruined lands behind them shrinking into the distance, but still, they did not speak. The road ahead remained rough but open, stretching into the horizon with no sign of mist or crumbling ruins. It should have felt like freedom. It didn’t. The silence stretched, an unspoken question hanging heavy between them.

Only when they had put a considerable distance between themselves and the cursed ruins did Visenya finally ease her grip on the reins, allowing her body to unwind from its battle-readied tension. The fire within her had settled, but the memory of its release remained, a quiet hum beneath her skin.

At last, Daenerys spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Are you all right?"

Visenya exhaled, long and slow, tilting her head slightly toward her twin but keeping her gaze on the road ahead. "I don’t know."

It was the truth. She didn’t know what it meant, what she had done, or what it would mean in the days to come.

Daenerys didn’t press. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingers against Visenya’s arm, a simple touch, warm and grounding. It was enough. For now.

They would talk when they were ready.

For now, they rode on, leaving the Sorrows behind, but carrying its memory within them, just another weight to bear on the long road ahead.

The night settled around them with an eerie stillness, broken only by the occasional crackle of their modest fire and the rustling of distant leaves. The road had been long, the weight of the Sorrows still pressing upon them, but exhaustion did not touch Visenya. The fire still burned in her veins, a silent reminder of what she had unleashed. No matter how much distance they put between themselves and that cursed land, she could not shake the raw energy humming beneath her skin. It was a strange sensation, not just power but something ancient and alive, something that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath her ribs, whispering to her in the silence of the night.

She sat at the edge of their camp, her arms resting on her knees, gazing into the dark horizon as if searching for answers within the shadows. Sylveris remained draped around her shoulders, her cool body a contrast to the heat still radiating within Visenya. The small dragon had been unusually still since the encounter, her golden eyes half-lidded as she pressed herself against her mother. She, too, felt the lingering unease, the change that had awakened something long thought lost to time. It was not fear, not truly, but something unspoken, an awareness that things had shifted.

Visenya clenched her hands into fists, staring down at them. It wasn't just the power that unsettled her—it was how it had felt. How natural. How right. Unlike the magic she had once wielded in another life, which had always been a tool, something harnessed through discipline and will, this was different. This was instinctive, primal, unrestrained. There had been no incantations, no wand, no measured control—just her, calling the fire, and the fire answering. And the worst part? She had liked it. The rush, the way the flames had obeyed as though they had been waiting for her command. It had felt intoxicating, freeing in a way she had never known before. And that terrified her.

Magic had always been something she fought to control, something she had to bend to her will. But here, now, it did not resist. It did not struggle. It wanted to be used. The fire had not simply answered her call—it had been eager, like an animal finally unchained. That was what disturbed her the most. She had wielded magic in battle before, had faced enemies with a wand in her grasp and spells on her lips, but never had it felt like this. The magic of this world was different, raw and old, tied to her blood rather than learned through books and training.

Footsteps approached softly, deliberate but without hesitation. Visenya did not need to turn to know it was Daenerys. The bond between them was something beyond words, a tether stronger than any force in this world or the last. When Daenerys finally reached her, she did not speak right away. Instead, she knelt before Visenya, bringing the warmth of their dragons with her. Drakarion settled beside her, his dark scales gleaming in the firelight, while Aenryx and Vaelyx nestled in close, drawn to their mothers’ presence as if by instinct. Even Sylveris lifted her head slightly, sensing the change in the air.

Without a word, Daenerys reached forward, gently taking Visenya’s hands in her own. Her grip was warm, steady, grounding, as if trying to pull Visenya back from wherever her mind had wandered.

"You’re not alone in this," Daenerys murmured, her voice soft but filled with quiet certainty. "Whatever is happening, we will face it together."

Visenya’s fingers curled slightly, as if to hold on tighter. The fire inside her had always been hers alone to bear—until now. She had spent so much time fearing what it meant, what it would make her. But here, in this moment, with Daenerys’s hands wrapped around hers and their dragons nestled against them, it did not feel like a curse.

Still, the doubt gnawed at her. "What if I lose control?" she whispered, barely audible, but Daenerys heard her all the same. "What if I enjoy it too much? What if one day, I don’t stop?"

Daenerys’s grip on her hands tightened slightly, her expression unwavering. "Then I will be here to remind you of who you are," she said. "You are Visenya. My sister. My heart. No fire will ever change that."

Visenya swallowed, searching Daenerys’s face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of uncertainty. She found none. Daenerys had always believed in her, even when Visenya struggled to believe in herself.

For the first time that night, Visenya exhaled fully, letting her forehead press gently against Daenerys’s, drawing in the steady rhythm of her sister’s breath. She still didn’t know what this power would mean for her, but in this moment, she let herself believe in Daenerys’s words.

"I know," Visenya whispered. And for the first time since the Sorrows, she allowed herself to believe it.

~~

The road had been long, stretching over endless fields, past rivers that glistened beneath the sun, and through villages that blurred together in their memories. Over a month had passed since they had fled Pentos, each day bringing them farther from the life they had left behind and closer to the unknown future that lay ahead. The journey had been both exhausting and enlightening, forcing them to adapt to life on the road, to keep moving despite the aches in their muscles and the weariness in their bones. They had traversed rolling hills, dense forests, and open plains where the wind howled through the grass like whispers of forgotten voices. Each night had been spent beneath the stars, their dragons curled between them for warmth and comfort, their only light the flickering glow of their small campfires. But now, at last, their journey had brought them to the great city of Volantis.

Before them, sprawled across both sides of the mighty Rhoyne, the city loomed like a behemoth of stone and smoke, its walls ancient and vast, towering over the sprawling districts within. The sheer size of Volantis made even Pentos seem small in comparison, its expanse so great that the river itself cut through it like a dividing scar, linking its two halves with great bridges that arched over the murky waters. From where they stood, the city seemed to pulse with life, its many streets teeming with people, the movement of ships in the harbor like a rhythmic heartbeat echoing across the waves. Lanterns flickered along the riverside, glowing like fireflies against the backdrop of the looming Black Walls, illuminating the figures of merchants, workers, and travelers moving like ants through the labyrinthine streets.

The Black Walls of the city, ancient and imposing, surrounded the oldest part of Volantis. Even from a distance, the immense structure was daunting, a remnant of an empire that had long since crumbled. The walls stood black as night, their surface smooth as glass, seemingly untouched by the passage of time. The weight of Valyria’s shadow lingered here, its presence felt in every brick, every narrow street, and every whispered conversation between those who still clung to its legacy. Beyond those walls, the rest of the city stretched outward, a tangled maze of marketplaces, docks, and homes built atop one another, winding through streets that overflowed with people. The sounds of the city reached them even from the outskirts—shouting traders, braying animals, the metallic clang of forges working late into the evening. The air was thick with the scent of salt from the Rhoyne, mixed with the richer, earthier smells of spice, roasted meat, and sweat. But beneath it all, there was something darker—a lingering stench of filth and blood, the unmistakable scent of suffering.

Visenya pulled her horse to a stop on a small rise, letting her eyes sweep over the cityscape before them. The sight was overwhelming, almost suffocating in its sheer enormity. The distant hum of life was constant, voices rising in shouts and calls from the docks, the endless movement of thousands of people going about their lives in a city that had existed long before she was born. It was unlike anything she had ever seen before. Even in her past life, as Victoria, she had never encountered a place so vast, so ancient and alive all at once. London had been large, full of people and towering structures, but it had been nothing like this. Volantis had history etched into its very stones, a weight that could be felt in the air, a city that had outlasted empires and still stood, proud and unyielding. It did not bow, did not break; it endured, like the river that carved through its heart, and Visenya could not help but feel a strange respect for that.

Daenerys came to a halt beside her, her violet eyes wide as she took in the sight. "It’s enormous," she murmured, her voice carrying a mix of awe and apprehension. Her fingers tightened on the reins, as though she could feel the weight of what lay ahead. There was excitement in her eyes, but also a quiet wariness, an understanding that the city held dangers they could not yet see. She had been born in exile, carried across the sea as a babe, raised in a world where she had never been truly safe. Now, here they stood, before a city older than even their ancestors’ lost empire, a place that might offer both opportunity and treachery in equal measure.

Jorah, riding slightly behind them, nodded. "The greatest city in Essos, some say," he said. "A city older than even Old Valyria itself. But it is also a city of slaves. There are more slaves in Volantis than free men."

Daenerys’s expression darkened at that, and Visenya felt the tension coil in her own chest. She had known of slavery in Essos, had seen glimpses of it in Pentos, but never to this scale. Here, it was woven into the fabric of life, accepted as a simple fact. They could see it from where they stood—rows of men and women in collars, some shackled together as they carried goods through the streets, others standing motionless in pens near the harbor, waiting to be sold like cattle. Their eyes were empty, their spirits already broken by the weight of their chains. It made Visenya sick, a fury rising within her, an old anger that had no place in this world but still burned all the same. She had fought against oppression before, had known the cruelty of those who sought power through the suffering of others. Here, in the shadow of Volantis, that cruelty was thriving, a reminder that the world had changed little, even in a different life.

She clenched her fists. No matter what world she was in, cruelty like this persisted. It was a bitter realization, one she had made before, but here, under the shadow of Volantis, it felt heavier. It pressed against her chest, filled her with a simmering rage that had no immediate outlet. She wanted to burn it down. To shatter the chains, to reduce the great Black Walls to rubble beneath dragon fire. But they could not afford such recklessness—not yet.

"And we must tread carefully here," Jorah continued. "Volantis is ruled by its own power, and the Freehold’s influence has not faded as much as the world likes to believe. We will find no safe haven if the wrong people take notice."

Visenya’s grip tightened on the reins. "Then we make sure they don’t."

Daenerys glanced at her, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her face before she nodded. There was no room for doubt now, no hesitation. They had come too far to falter. Whatever Volantis had in store for them, they would face it together.

They had come this far, and now the gates of Volantis lay ahead, waiting to swallow them whole.

The streets of Volantis were unlike anything they had yet encountered on their journey. As Visenya, Daenerys, and Jorah rode through the ancient city, they remained close together, their cloaks drawn tight to obscure their features. Their dragons remained hidden, curled in the saddle bags, shifting restlessly from time to time, but for now, they stayed silent. It was a necessity, but Visenya felt the absence of Sylveris’s weight around her shoulders keenly, as if a part of herself had been stripped away.

Volantis was alive in a way that felt almost suffocating. The streets were thick with bodies, merchants crying out their wares, the scent of spice and roasting meats mingling with the ever-present stench of unwashed bodies and filth. It was a city of contradictions—majestic stone buildings adorned with carved reliefs of dragons and Valyrian runes stood alongside crumbling alleyways where beggars huddled in the shadows. The main thoroughfare was paved with worn black stones that had been there for centuries, but the further they rode, the more the grandeur gave way to decay. Wealth and power clung to the Black Walls, while desperation festered beyond them.

Slaves filled the streets in numbers so great that they nearly outnumbered the free men. They were marked by tattoos on their cheeks, inked brands that revealed their station—household slaves, laborers, fighting men, and even those trained for more carnal purposes. Some were chained together, being led to the great slave markets, while others simply moved with heads bowed, doing their duties with vacant expressions. It was as Jorah had said: more slaves than free men.

The sight made Visenya’s stomach churn. Every fiber of her being itched to strike out, to tear down the systems that allowed this horror to persist. But she forced herself to breathe, to focus. They were being watched, whether by passing glances or lingering stares, and drawing attention would do them no good. Still, the weight of her fury coiled tightly in her chest, threatening to burst free.

"Keep your eyes ahead," Jorah murmured, his voice barely audible over the din of the streets. "We don’t want to linger more than necessary."

Daenerys, her expression unreadable, nodded and rode slightly closer to Visenya. Her fingers twitched against the reins, and Visenya knew her twin felt the same turmoil churning inside her. They had learned of this reality from afar, but seeing it firsthand was another matter entirely. Daenerys had spoken of the injustices of the world before, of breaking chains and freeing the oppressed, but here, in this city, the scale of that oppression loomed before them like a beast they had no means to slay—at least not yet.

As they passed through the markets, the noise grew even louder. Fishmongers shouted their prices, their stalls overflowing with river bounty, while traders bartered over silks, spices, and jewelry. The air was thick with the scent of incense and roasting meats, but beneath it all, there was something rancid—the stench of desperation, of people who had no choice but to accept their fate.

A commotion ahead drew their attention—a slave auction in progress. A row of men and women stood on a raised platform, each forced to hold a rigid posture as the auctioneer barked out their qualities to a crowd of eager bidders. A girl, no older than ten, stood trembling beside a man with fresh lash marks across his back. A noble in flowing orange robes gestured lazily toward her, tossing a bag of coin onto the stage. No hesitation. No consideration that she was anything more than property.

Visenya’s hands tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palms so hard she nearly drew blood. The rage inside her burned like a living thing, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself to look away. If she acted on that anger now, if she let the fire inside her loose, she would burn this entire city to the ground.

Ahead, the great bridge that connected the two halves of the city loomed. The Long Bridge, a marvel of Valyrian engineering, stretched across the Rhoyne, lined with towering buildings and bustling with life. Taverns, shops, temples, and brothels crowded every available space, the entire structure seeming more like a city unto itself than a mere bridge. Smoke curled from chimneys, mingling with the damp river air, while people moved between establishments, some drunk and staggering, others engaged in heated arguments. The bridge was chaos wrapped in stone, its heart pulsing with commerce and sin.

"Where do we go first?" Daenerys asked, glancing between Jorah and Visenya, her voice tight with barely contained emotion.

Jorah exhaled. "We’ll need an inn for the night, someplace quiet. Then, we can determine our next steps. Volantis is a place of many whispers, and if there’s news to be heard, it’ll find its way to us."

"And if the wrong ears hear of us first?" Visenya muttered, glancing at the figures watching them from the shadows. Eyes peered from darkened alleys, some merely curious, others with intent yet unknown.

"Then we leave before trouble finds us," Jorah replied.

Visenya nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on the city ahead. The storm inside her had not abated, only been pushed aside for now. But she knew one thing for certain—whatever their purpose in Volantis, she would not leave it unchanged.

The trio made their way through the winding streets of Volantis, careful to keep their heads down and their movements swift. The city was a labyrinth of alleys and canals, the scent of salt and fish thick in the air as they neared the docks. Dim torchlight flickered along the sides of buildings, casting long shadows that danced against the ancient stone walls. Jorah led the way, guiding them toward an inn that looked modest enough to avoid attention yet sturdy enough to offer some semblance of security.

The inn sat nestled between a cluster of warehouses, its wooden sign swaying gently in the night breeze. The air was heavy with the sounds of creaking ships, the distant chatter of sailors, and the rhythmic lapping of water against the piers. The voices carried the rough tones of traders and mercenaries, men who spent their lives at sea or in the dangerous streets of a city that never truly slept. Visenya scanned their surroundings, her fingers twitching slightly toward Dark Sister’s hilt, but no one seemed to be paying them any special attention. She still felt uneasy. Volantis was filled with too many eyes, too many opportunities for whispers to spread.

Jorah approached the innkeeper, exchanging a few quiet words before handing over a few coins. The man barely spared them a glance as he slid three keys across the worn counter, nodding toward the upper level. He seemed disinterested, his gaze moving to the next customer as though he had already forgotten them. That suited Visenya just fine.

Without further hesitation, they climbed the narrow wooden staircase, the boards creaking softly beneath their boots. The second floor was lined with doors, each leading to small, private rooms. The air smelled of old wood and faintly of damp fabric, but at least it was warm. Jorah took the room nearest the stairwell, keeping his proximity close should anything happen in the night. The twins entered their own room first, shutting the door quickly behind them.

The space was small but clean, a single bed pushed against the far wall, a washbasin near the window, and a small hearth crackling faintly with embers from a dying fire. It wasn’t luxurious, but it was more than they had enjoyed in weeks. Daenerys immediately began to unfasten her cloak, rubbing at her arms as the fatigue of their travels settled upon her.

Visenya moved to the corner, lowering her saddlebag to the ground and unfastening the straps. A low, eager chittering sounded from within before Sylveris poked her head out, her amber eyes gleaming in the dim light. A heartbeat later, Drakarion followed, his dark scales shimmering as he stretched his wings. Aenryx and Vaelyx scrambled out next, the four dragons taking quick stock of their surroundings before clambering toward their mothers, nuzzling and chirping excitedly.

Daenerys let out a soft laugh as she reached out to run her fingers down Drakarion’s back, the dragon arching under her touch like a contented cat. "They hate being confined as much as we do," she murmured, glancing at Visenya, who was stroking Sylveris’s snout.

Visenya nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly now that their dragons were free. "At least they know to be quiet when needed," she said. "But they’ll be restless after so long in those bags. We’ll need to let them stretch their wings soon."

Vaelyx let out a tiny, indignant hiss and promptly hopped onto the bed, curling into the warm blankets. Aenryx followed suit, nudging Daenerys’s hand before nestling against her side. Sylveris stretched her wings slightly before circling back to Visenya, while Drakarion sniffed around the floor, ever curious.

A knock at the door made them both tense for a brief moment before Jorah’s voice came through. "I’m heading to the docks to find us passage. Stay inside and keep your heads low. I’ll return before sunrise."

Daenerys moved closer to the door. "Be careful," she called back.

There was a pause before Jorah’s footsteps retreated down the hall, the sound fading into the floorboards beneath him. The twins exchanged glances before Visenya sighed, rolling her shoulders before settling onto the bed beside Daenerys.

Rather than rest immediately, the two of them decided their dragons needed to burn off some energy after being confined for so long. They nudged them toward the open space of the room, encouraging them to stretch their limbs and wings.

Sylveris took to the air first, gliding across the short distance between the walls before landing neatly on the wooden floor, her tail flicking with pride. Drakarion immediately tried to follow but miscalculated, tumbling mid-air before landing in a heap, letting out a frustrated growl.

Daenerys laughed, reaching down to rub his snout. "You’ll get it soon enough," she reassured him.

Vaelyx was far more adventurous, launching himself from the bed in an attempt to land atop Visenya’s shoulder. His wings barely caught him in time, and he clung to her arm, looking incredibly pleased with himself. "Cheeky thing," Visenya muttered with a smirk, scratching under his chin.

Aenryx, more reserved, observed them all before fluttering her wings gracefully, practicing subtle movements rather than throwing herself into the air recklessly. It was a quiet contrast to her siblings' antics, and Daenerys watched her with admiration. "She’s patient," she noted. "She’s learning before she leaps."

Visenya chuckled, watching as Sylveris and Drakarion started nudging each other playfully. "Unlike these two, who are all fire and impatience."

Vaelyx, ever the troublemaker, pounced onto Drakarion’s tail, causing him to let out a startled squawk. The black and red dragon turned, huffing indignantly before chasing after his sibling, their tiny claws clicking against the wooden floor as they scampered in circles. Sylveris, observing from above, let out a smug chuff before gliding down to join the chaos, landing lightly atop Vaelyx, pinning him with her forelimbs as he wiggled beneath her.

Aenryx watched the unfolding skirmish with calm amusement before finally joining, tackling Drakarion and sending them both rolling across the floor. Their wings flared in excitement, chirps and warbles filling the room as the playful battle escalated. Soon, Visenya and Daenerys found themselves drawn into the fray, gently wrestling their dragons as they tumbled into their laps.

Drakarion puffed a tiny stream of fire, only for Sylveris to counter with her own, their flames flickering harmlessly before fading. Daenerys scooped Aenryx up into her arms, the little dragon curling against her, still letting out playful huffs. Visenya found herself with Vaelyx draped across her lap, his tail flicking as she scratched beneath his chin.

After the dragons had burned off their energy, the exhaustion of their long journey finally settled over the room. One by one, the dragons began to slow, their playful growls and chirps turning into softer, drowsy murmurs. Drakarion yawned widely, his small fangs flashing before he clambered onto the bed, curling against Daenerys’s side. Sylveris followed, nestling into the crook of Visenya’s neck, her tail wrapping loosely around her arm. Vaelyx and Aenryx, not wanting to be left out, stretched out between them, creating a tangle of limbs, scales, and warmth.

Visenya and Daenerys eased themselves under the blankets, shifting carefully so as not to disturb their children. The single bed was small, but they had long since grown used to sharing. The twins curled together beneath the covers, their legs entangled as they sought comfort in each other’s presence. Daenerys rested her head against Visenya’s shoulder, her breath warm against her collarbone.

Visenya exhaled, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on her, but the steady rise and fall of Daenerys’s chest against her own was grounding. She reached up, brushing a few strands of silver hair from Daenerys’s face before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Sleep," she murmured. "We’ll face whatever comes tomorrow."

Daenerys hummed softly in agreement, her arms tightening around Visenya before she finally allowed herself to drift off. The room was silent except for the occasional sleepy chirp from their dragons, their small bodies a source of warmth and security.

Sylveris let out a low, contented trill, pressing closer into Visenya’s warmth, while Drakarion shifted just enough to rest his head against Daenerys’s arm, letting out a slow breath. Vaelyx sprawled across them both, his small wings twitching in his sleep, while Aenryx nestled her head beneath Daenerys’s chin, as though seeking the rhythmic heartbeat beneath. The weight of them, the gentle warmth of their scales and the steady cadence of each breath, formed a cocoon around the twins, their little family wrapped together in the soft glow of the dimly lit room.

Despite the uncertainty of the road ahead, for now, in this small room, the two of them were safe—together, their bond unshaken and their love stronger than ever.

~~

With Jorah still searching for a captain willing to take them east, Visenya and Daenerys decided to take a brief walk through the market, needing something to distract them from the tension of waiting. They kept their heads covered, their cloaks pulled tightly around them, ensuring that no wandering eyes lingered too long on their silver hair. Beneath their cloaks, their dragons nestled close, hidden but alert, their small bodies radiating warmth against their mothers. Every so often, a tiny claw would shift, or a quiet chirp would vibrate against their skin, a reminder of the precious lives they carried.

The streets of Volantis were alive with sound and movement, a chaotic mixture of colors and scents. Merchants called out their wares, haggling with customers over spices from the Summer Isles, intricate tapestries from Qarth, and blades forged in the shadow of Asshai. The air carried the scent of roasting meat, pungent herbs, and the salt of the nearby river, mingling with the ever-present smell of bodies packed too tightly in the crowded streets. Crowds surged forward and back, pressing close, the hum of conversation blending with the clang of metal as blacksmiths displayed their craftsmanship, forging weapons in the open air. The sheer volume of people put Visenya on edge. There were too many faces, too many chances for someone to take notice of them.

As they moved through the throng, Daenerys reached for Visenya’s hand, gripping it lightly beneath the folds of their cloaks. "We should find something small for the dragons," she murmured. "They grow restless, and I fear we may not always have what they need."

Visenya nodded, scanning the stalls with a careful eye. "Something soft to line their resting places, perhaps. Or fresh meat that hasn't been dried beyond recognition."

They stopped at a vendor selling fine cloth, and Daenerys ran her fingers over the softest silks, considering how they might comfort their young dragons when they were forced to remain hidden. Nearby, another merchant had cages filled with squawking birds and skittering rodents—food for pets or something more sinister. 

Drakarion shifted slightly beneath Daenerys’ cloak, his sharp snout peeking out for just a moment as if he could smell the small creatures nearby. He let out a small, irritated huff, clearly interested. She gave a warning squeeze to Visenya’s hand, silently reminding her that they couldn’t risk exposing their children here, not in a place filled with too many wandering eyes and too many whispers.

As they bartered for a few items, Visenya felt the weight of an unfamiliar gaze on them. A group of men stood by a spice merchant, speaking in hushed tones. One of them—a tall man with sharp features and a thin scar running along his jaw—kept glancing their way, his gaze lingering a moment too long. His expression was unreadable, but it set her on edge nonetheless. 

Visenya tensed, her fingers tightening around the pouch of coins at her belt. "We need to leave. Now."

Daenerys didn’t question her. Keeping their pace measured, they finished their transaction and stepped away from the stalls, weaving subtly through the crowd. They turned down a quieter side street, walking briskly but not running. Behind them, Visenya could hear footsteps—deliberate, careful, but following. A familiar tension tightened in her chest, the same instinctual warning that had kept her alive in another life. 

She exchanged a look with Daenerys, her grip tightening protectively. If they had been recognized, if someone suspected who they were, then they could not afford to linger. The market had offered a brief distraction, but now the city’s dangers pressed in around them once more. The weight of their dragons tucked beneath their cloaks reassured them, but they knew they couldn’t afford to fight in a place like this. Not yet.

As they moved quickly through a narrow alleyway, Daenerys slowed for just a moment. At a small booth nestled between two larger stalls, her eye caught a delicate pendant hanging among the trinkets. A small dragon, cast in silver with hints of black enamel, its wings curling protectively around a fiery red gemstone. 

It reminded her of Visenya—fierce, protective, and unyielding.

Without hesitation, she slipped a few coins to the merchant and tucked the necklace into the folds of her cloak before hurrying after her sister. She said nothing, deciding she would wait for the right moment to give it to Visenya, when they were not pressed by the need for caution or escape. 

They picked up their pace, slipping through the narrow back streets until the sounds of the market dimmed behind them. The weight of the gazes had not entirely vanished, but they reached the quieter paths leading toward their inn. Neither spoke until they were safely inside the dimly lit corridors, their breaths steady but filled with quiet tension.

They needed to return to their room—before their enemies closed in. Whatever had been lurking in the market, whatever danger had been watching them, it was not something they could afford to face just yet. 

As Visenya shut the door behind them, Daenerys cast a glance at her sister, her fingers brushing against the cool silver of the dragon pendant hidden in her cloak. Soon, she would give it to her. A small gesture, a token of their bond, something to remind Visenya that no matter the danger, no matter how dark their path became, they would always have each other. She wanted to see Visenya wear it, to have something that showed how much she meant to her. But more than that, it was a quiet reminder—a symbol of their shared blood, their dragons, and the fire that burned within them both.

After returning to the inn and ensuring their purchases were safely stored away, Visenya and Daenerys decided to indulge in a rare luxury—paying extra for a private bath. After weeks of relentless travel, dust clinging to their skin, and the ever-present tension of being hunted, the thought of sinking into warm, clean water was irresistible.

The bathhouse was a modest yet well-kept part of the inn, a deep stone tub sunken into the floor, the air thick with steam and the scent of fragrant oils. The dim lighting cast flickering golden hues over the water, creating an atmosphere of quiet intimacy. Their dragons perched along the stone edges, tails flicking idly, their bright eyes watching their mothers curiously, sensing the shift in the air, the way their bonded ones sought solace in each other.

Visenya was the first to step into the bath, a slow sigh slipping from her lips as the warmth seeped into her sore muscles, dissolving tension she hadn’t realized she was holding. Daenerys followed, slipping into the water beside her, the small space forcing their bodies to remain close. It wasn’t the first time they had bathed together, but something about this moment felt different—more profound, more tender. The flickering candlelight reflected in Daenerys’ violet eyes, her gaze softer than usual, as if the burdens of their journey could be set aside, even if only for a fleeting moment.

For a long moment, they simply sat there, breathing in the humid air, letting the water soothe away the aches of their journey. Daenerys was the first to break the silence, dipping a cloth into the warm water and running it gently over Visenya’s shoulder, her touch lingering.

"You always carry so much tension here," she murmured, fingers pressing lightly into the tight muscles beneath Visenya’s skin.

Visenya let out a soft huff, leaning slightly into her twin’s touch. "Carrying a sword and keeping watch every night will do that."

Daenerys shook her head, her expression unreadable as she continued her slow, deliberate ministrations. "You never let yourself rest properly. You always watch over me."

Visenya turned then, taking the cloth from Daenerys’ hands and mirroring the action, gliding the damp fabric over her twin’s delicate collarbones, down her arms, and across her back. "I rest when I know you’re safe," she murmured, her voice low, almost reverent.

Their dragons chirped softly, Sylveris tilting her head toward the water, black-spotted white scales gleaming under the candlelight. Drakarion let out a quiet, approving hum, stretching his wings lazily before curling up once more. Aenryx and Vaelyx nestled close together, watching with their sharp golden and green eyes, their tails twitching in curiosity.

The two of them continued to wash each other in silence, the gentle motions lingering, fingers brushing over warm, slick skin with a quiet intimacy. Each movement held meaning—affection, care, devotion. Their gazes met more than once, unspoken words passing between them, but neither felt the need to break the moment with speech. The warmth of the water wrapped around them, but it was nothing compared to the warmth between them.

At one point, Daenerys reached up, cupping Visenya’s face with wet fingers, her thumb tracing over her cheekbone. "You don’t always have to be strong," she whispered.

Visenya’s breath caught for a fraction of a second before she leaned into the touch, closing her eyes. "Not when I have you."

Daenerys’ fingers tightened slightly, her forehead coming to rest against Visenya’s, the proximity making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. "We will always have each other, won’t we?"

Visenya exhaled softly, tilting her head just slightly so their noses brushed, the air between them heavy with something unspoken, something fragile yet unbreakable. "Always."

The world outside the bathhouse, the dangers, the uncertainty, the weight of their past and the unknowable future—none of it mattered in that moment. There was only them, only this space where they could be soft, where they could hold each other without the need for swords or walls between them.

When they finally stepped from the bath, their bodies languid and warm, they dried each other off with slow, tender movements. It wasn’t just about cleansing away the dirt and sweat of the road; it was about grounding themselves in each other, reaffirming that despite the dangers that awaited them outside, here, in this moment, they were safe.

Their dragons draped themselves over their shoulders as they padded back to their room, the damp warmth of the bath still clinging to their skin. Without hesitation, they slipped beneath the sheets together, pressing close, their legs tangling as they had since childhood. The room was silent except for the soft breaths they shared, their dragons nestled between them, a protective tangle of scales and warmth.

Visenya’s hand found Daenerys’, their fingers lacing together beneath the covers. Daenerys turned slightly, her lips brushing against Visenya’s temple in a whisper of a kiss before settling into the crook of her sister’s arm, where she had always felt safest.

Neither spoke, but they didn’t need to.

As long as they had each other, they would never be alone.

As they lay together in the dimly lit room, their bodies curled close beneath the soft weight of their blankets, the warmth of their dragons pressed intimately against them, Daenerys let out a quiet sigh. Her fingers traced idle patterns against Visenya’s skin, her touch feather-light, as though grounding herself in the reality of the moment. Each stroke of her fingertips was an unspoken question, a silent plea for reassurance, for stability in a world that had never offered them such things.

The steady rise and fall of their dragons’ small bodies as they slept provided a comforting rhythm, the gentle warmth of their scaled forms seeping into their skin. But even with the peaceful silence of the room, Daenerys’ mind was restless. Her thoughts spun like a storm at sea, churning over uncertainties and fears that she had never voiced aloud before. She hesitated before speaking, her voice softer than a whisper, carrying the weight of unspoken doubts.

"I don’t know if we’ll ever find a place to truly belong," she admitted, her words slipping into the quiet space between them like a confession she had long kept buried. "Everywhere we go, we are foreigners, outsiders. We are hunted, traded like pawns in the games of men. Even if we fled to the farthest corners of the world, would we ever truly be free? Or would we always be running?"

Visenya’s arms tightened slightly around her, drawing her closer, pressing a lingering kiss to Daenerys’ temple. She let the silence stretch for a moment, considering her words, feeling the tremor of doubt that laced them. She understood the fear well—it had clawed at her in another life, in another world, the feeling of never being able to simply exist without the shadow of expectation looming overhead.

"I don’t know," Visenya admitted, her voice as steady as the beat of her heart beneath Daenerys’ cheek. "I can’t promise you that we will find a place where we can live without fear, without someone trying to control us. But I know this—we have each other. And no matter where we go, or what comes next, that will always be enough for me."

Daenerys’ fingers curled against Visenya’s side, gripping her tighter, her breath a whisper against her twin’s collarbone. "Even if we have to take back the Iron Throne? Even if we have to fight for it?"

Visenya exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing through Daenerys’ silver hair, savoring the feel of it between her fingertips, an anchor to keep her grounded. "If it comes to that, if we have no other choice—then I will do it. Not because I want it. Not because I dream of ruling." She shook her head slightly, her voice firm, unwavering. "I don’t care for a throne of melted swords or a kingdom that has never known peace. But I will fight for it if it means avenging our family, if it means protecting you. I would burn the world before I let it take you from me."

Daenerys shivered at the conviction in her twin’s words, but she did not pull away. She simply nestled closer, burying her face against Visenya’s neck, letting the warmth of her body, of their dragons breathing between them, lull her into something that almost felt like peace. Almost.

"Then I will stand beside you," Daenerys murmured, pressing her lips against Visenya’s collarbone in a silent vow. "Wherever we go, whatever comes next—we face it together."

Visenya smiled faintly, tilting Daenerys’ chin up so their foreheads pressed together, the soft press of skin against skin a reminder of the unshakable bond they had forged in fire and loss. "Always together."

Daenerys let out a slow breath, closing her eyes as she allowed herself, for just this moment, to believe in that promise. The weight of their pasts, the uncertainty of their futures, all faded in that moment. The only thing that mattered was the unbreakable bond between them—their love, their loyalty, the quiet promise of never being alone as long as they had each other. 

The dragons stirred in their sleep, their tails twitching, their soft coos filling the quiet room as though they, too, could feel the certainty between their mothers. The night stretched on, the world outside waiting with all its dangers and uncertainties. But here, in the warmth of each other’s embrace, the twins found the one thing the world could never take from them.

Each other.

Chapter 6: VI

Summary:

A ship from Volantis and echoes from the past.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

VI

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The morning sun cast a golden glow over the city of Volantis, its light filtering through the wooden slats of the inn’s shutters, illuminating the dust motes that danced lazily in the air. Outside, the city was already alive with movement, the calls of merchants and the distant clang of metal against metal blending into a chaotic melody. But inside the dimly lit chamber, Visenya and Daenerys sat in a quiet, intimate space, sharing their morning meal. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the honeyed aroma of fruit, and the warmth of the spiced tea they sipped offered a small comfort against the ever-present tension that coiled within them.

Their dragons were nestled against them, their tiny forms sluggish with sleep. Sylveris curled protectively around Visenya’s shoulder, her snowy scales dappled with the early morning light, while Drakarion rested against Daenerys’ side, his tail twitching occasionally. Aenryx and Vaelyx sprawled across their laps, their small bodies radiating heat, their soft trills barely audible. It was a moment of fragile peace—one they knew would not last.

The sound of boots against wooden flooring drew their attention. Jorah entered the room with measured steps, his expression unreadable as he approached their table. He inclined his head slightly before speaking, his voice low but firm, betraying the urgency beneath his controlled demeanor.

"I’ve found us a ship," he announced, placing a rolled parchment on the table. "The captain is a merchant named Morthis Rheen. He has agreed to take us to Qarth in exchange for a reasonable sum. No questions asked."

Visenya’s violet gaze flickered to Daenerys before she reached for the parchment, unrolling it with careful hands. Her eyes traced the mapped-out route, the inked lines marking the long voyage across the Summer Sea. It was a straightforward journey, but long and uncertain. They would be at the mercy of the tides, the winds, and the captain’s discretion. Anything could go wrong.

"How much does he know of us?" Visenya asked, her fingers tapping lightly against the worn wood of the table in a slow, rhythmic motion.

"Only what I told him—that you are noblewomen seeking safe passage east, that you have coin, and that discretion is required." Jorah’s gaze was steady, but a shadow of caution lurked beneath his words. "He is willing to accept that answer. But he is no fool. If he suspects anything more, he will weigh the risks against the reward."

Daenerys exhaled softly, her fingers running over the scales of Drakarion, who shifted beneath her touch, his golden eyes cracking open for a moment before settling once more. "Qarth… It is far, but it is a place we might be safe for a time. We can rest, plan our next steps."

Visenya nodded, setting the parchment down with a decisive motion. "Then we leave as soon as possible. We cannot linger here longer than we must. We have been fortunate so far, but that luck will not hold forever."

Jorah dipped his head in agreement. "The ship leaves with the tide. We must be ready before nightfall. It will take us to Qarth without stopping, but the journey will not be quick."

Daenerys reached for Visenya’s hand beneath the table, squeezing it gently. "It is our best choice for now."

Visenya looked at her twin and nodded, her fingers tightening in return. They had no true destination, no solid path forward, but that had always been the way of their lives. The only certainty was each other.

Jorah stepped back, preparing to make the final arrangements. As he left, the twins exchanged a look, an understanding passing between them without words. The road ahead was uncertain, the journey treacherous, but they would walk it together. No matter what lay beyond the horizon, they would face it as they always had—side by side, their dragons at their sides, their bond unbreakable.

The midday sun filtered through the slatted windows of their small chamber, casting streaks of golden light across the floor as Visenya and Daenerys worked in quiet synchrony. Outside, the city of Volantis buzzed with life, the distant sounds of merchants bartering and carts rolling over cobblestone streets forming a backdrop to their preparations. Inside, however, all that mattered was ensuring everything was ready for their departure. Their dragons perched nearby, their keen eyes tracking every movement, as if they understood the weight of the moment.

Visenya held up the newly acquired fabric, running her fingers over its smooth surface. It was sturdy yet soft, far better than the rough lining they had used before. "This should be more comfortable for them," she murmured, casting a glance at Sylveris, who flicked her tail in apparent approval, her sharp amber eyes watching with curiosity.

Daenerys nodded, carefully tucking the material into the saddle bags. "They deserve to rest properly. The last thing we need is them growing restless on the ship."

Aenryx let out a soft, rumbling chirp as if in agreement, stretching her wings before curling up again beside her brothers. Drakarion flicked his tail impatiently, nudging at one of the bags with his snout, clearly eager to be on the move.

Visenya smirked, shaking her head. "You’ll be carried like royalty soon enough, little one."

Daenerys chuckled, brushing her fingers over Drakarion’s head. "He’s impatient, just like you."

Visenya rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, her attention returning to the saddlebags. They worked meticulously, reinforcing the straps and ensuring the weight would be balanced. When they were satisfied, they gently placed their dragons inside, allowing them to settle against the soft fabric. The little creatures cooed in contentment, their warm bodies pressing close together in their makeshift nests.

With their children secured, they moved on to their belongings. There wasn’t much to pack—only what they could carry without burdening their horses. A few changes of clothing, waterskins, dried provisions, and their remaining coin. Visenya secured Dark Sister to her belt with practiced ease, ensuring the weight sat comfortably at her side, while Daenerys tucked her own dagger into her belt, testing its balance before nodding in satisfaction.

As they worked, a quiet understanding passed between them. This was it. Another step into the unknown. Another road leading them further from where they had started, but closer to whatever future awaited them. There was no telling what lay ahead, but they would face it together, as they always had.

With everything packed, they left their room and descended into the courtyard. The scent of hay and leather filled the air as they approached the stables, the familiar warmth of their horses a welcome comfort. Their steeds greeted them with soft huffs, stamping their hooves as the twins prepared them for the long journey ahead. The weight of the saddle bags, now carefully lined and balanced, was distributed evenly, ensuring the dragons remained undisturbed.

Visenya took a final glance around, scanning the stable yard with sharp eyes, always wary, always prepared for trouble. Daenerys, sensing her sister’s tension, reached out, briefly squeezing her wrist. "We will be fine."

Visenya let out a slow breath before nodding. "I know."

As they mounted, the leather reins firm in their grasp, Daenerys turned to Visenya. "Are you ready?"

Visenya exhaled, glancing toward the distant docks where their ship awaited. "As long as you are beside me."

Daenerys reached out, this time taking her hand fully, giving it a squeeze before nudging her horse forward. "Always."

With their dragons nestled close, their weapons at their sides, and their resolve unshaken, the twins rode toward the next chapter of their journey, leaving Volantis behind and stepping into whatever destiny awaited them beyond the horizon.

The streets of Volantis were alive with the pulse of the city's daily routines, a cacophony of voices, the scent of spices, salt, and roasting meats carried on the wind, mingling with the sweat and desperation of those who had no freedom. The roads were crowded, lined with towering structures built upon centuries of history, the city's Black Walls standing ominously in the distance, a reminder of the ancient power that still loomed over Volantis. Visenya and Daenerys rode side by side, their hoods drawn low to obscure their distinctive silver hair, their dragons hidden within the lined saddlebags draped across their mounts. They kept their heads down, moving with purpose, their horses weaving skillfully through the throng of merchants, slaves, and travelers, careful not to draw attention.

Jorah had given them clear directions, and their destination was set: a pier near the southern end of the harbor, where their ship awaited. The air near the docks was thick with the scent of brine and fish, but the overwhelming presence of the city’s trade masked it—spices from Yi Ti, fine silks from Qarth, and exotic creatures in cages, their cries blending with the calls of the merchants vying for coin.

As they turned a corner, the murmur of voices ahead shifted, growing louder, tinged with something darker.

A slave auction was underway.

The square was packed, filled with eager buyers and reluctant bidders, all eyeing the line of human suffering displayed before them. A raised platform loomed in the center, the auctioneer—draped in flowing orange robes—calling out details of each person presented. A row of men, women, and children stood beneath the scrutinizing gazes of the wealthy, each bound in iron collars and shackles. Some looked vacant, resigned to their fate. Others flinched, their fear evident even from a distance. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, despair, and iron.

Visenya’s grip on the reins tightened as her gaze swept over the platform. She had known of slavery, had read of its horrors, but to see it firsthand was another thing entirely. The slow fire curling in her chest burned hotter, but she knew better than to act. There was nothing they could do. Not yet.

Daenerys was rigid beside her, her expression unreadable, but Visenya could see the tremor in her fingers as they gripped the reins. They had been powerless for so long, at the mercy of others, and now, before them, stood those who would never know freedom.

A girl was pushed forward, barely into her teenage years. Her wrists were raw from the bindings, her dark eyes darting across the crowd in quiet terror. The auctioneer’s voice rang out, declaring her of strong stock, fit for household work or more, and the bidding began. A portly merchant raised a hand, his gaze lecherous, his lips curling into a pleased smile as he eyed the girl like she was nothing more than a piece of prized silk.

Daenerys inhaled sharply, her muscles tensing, her body language screaming that she wanted to act. Visenya knew that look, had seen it before. Daenerys had always been the softer of the two, the one who felt deeply and carried the weight of the world’s injustices. But here, now, they had no power to stop this.

Visenya reached out swiftly, gripping Daenerys’ arm with just enough pressure to anchor her. "Not here," she murmured under her breath, her voice low but firm. "Not now."

Daenerys hesitated, her jaw clenched tight. She looked back toward the platform, her eyes burning with fury, with helplessness, before finally exhaling and turning away. She didn’t speak, but her silence was heavy with unspoken promises.

The auctioneer continued, his voice rising as the bidding climbed. The sound chased them down the street, even as they pressed forward, as though branding itself into their minds.

The twins rode in silence, their horses’ hooves clopping against the stone road, the crowd parting around them. The docks weren’t far now, but neither could shake the lingering weight of what they had just witnessed. The image of the girl’s terrified eyes, the way her shoulders had hunched as she was presented like a prize to be won, would not leave them. It clung to them like a phantom, a reminder that the world they lived in was cruel and indifferent. And that one day, they would have to change it.

The docks of Volantis stretched before them, a chaotic sprawl of ships, sailors, and merchants shouting over one another as they loaded and unloaded cargo. The scent of salt and fish clung to the air, mixing with the heavy aroma of exotic spices, the acrid stench of tar, and the damp wood of well-worn piers. The cries of gulls echoed overhead, diving between the towering masts that swayed slightly in the harbor’s gentle current. Every step closer to their ship carried them further from the horrors of the slave auction they had left behind, but its echoes still clung to them, a ghost of helpless rage neither could fully shake.

Visenya and Daenerys moved through the bustling pier, their horses’ hooves clopping against the wooden planks as they followed Jorah’s lead. Their hoods remained drawn low to conceal their distinctive features, while their dragons lay nestled in the hidden saddlebags strapped securely across their mounts. Though they kept their heads down and their pace measured, they remained acutely aware of the ever-present gaze of Volantis’ people—slaves with empty eyes, merchants with calculating stares, and guards adorned in the orange and black of their city's ruling elite. This was not a city of safety; it was a place of power, one where they would be wise to leave quickly and without incident.

Jorah stood waiting at the far end of a long pier that extended into the harbor, beside a merchant vessel that had clearly seen years of hard travel. The sails were furled, its hull dark and weather-worn, but it looked sturdy enough for the journey ahead. A crew of men bustled about the deck, tying down crates, checking the rigging, and preparing for departure, their voices carrying over the water as they barked orders and counted supplies.

Jorah motioned them forward, his gaze scanning their surroundings cautiously before speaking in a low voice. "This is the ship. The Stormchaser. She’s a merchant vessel out of Slaver’s Bay, bound for Qarth. The captain agreed to take us in exchange for coin, no questions asked."

Visenya’s sharp violet eyes flicked up to the ship, taking in every detail. It was far from a noble vessel, but it was their best option. "Is the crew trustworthy?" she asked, her voice low and firm.

Jorah hesitated for a fraction of a moment before nodding. "As much as any merchant crew can be. The captain is an Essosi trader named Ralvas. He has no love for the Volantenes and no interest in politics. He cares only for his cargo and his profit. So long as we stay out of his way, we’ll have no trouble."

Daenerys reached out and placed a hand against Drakarion’s saddlebag, feeling the subtle warmth of her dragon nestled inside. "And if they find out about them?" she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jorah exhaled through his nose. "Then we make sure they don’t. The captain doesn’t care what we bring aboard so long as it isn’t a threat to his ship. Keep them hidden, and we will not have a problem."

Visenya and Daenerys exchanged a glance, silent understanding passing between them. This was their way forward, their escape from Volantis and the watchful eyes that might linger too long. They had been running since they left Illyrio’s manse, and though this ship would not take them to true safety, it would buy them time.

"Then we board," Visenya said finally, nudging her horse forward.

With Jorah leading the way, they guided their horses onto the gangplank, where the crew was in the process of loading the last of the ship’s cargo. The Stormchaser was not just carrying trade goods—it also had a small number of animals bound for Qarth, including goats, chickens, and a few sturdy pack mules. The sight of animals being corralled into their designated enclosures reassured them; it meant their horses would not be entirely out of place.

A crewman, burly with sun-darkened skin, grumbled under his breath as he waved them forward. "You’ll need to pay extra for stabling them," he muttered, glancing at the fine quality of the horses. "Space is limited."

Jorah tossed him a small pouch of coins, and the man, satisfied, motioned for a pair of deckhands to assist in securing the horses. The steeds whinnied softly as they were led down into the lower deck, where straw-lined stalls had been hastily arranged to house the few beasts of burden aboard the ship.

Visenya ran a hand down her horse’s flank, murmuring softly before stepping back. "We will come check on them later."

A crewman grunted in response before disappearing below deck to ensure the animals were settled.

As the last of their belongings were stowed, the captain, a lean man with sharp eyes and a calculating smile, observed them as they came aboard. He gave them only a cursory nod before barking orders at his crew to finish the final preparations for departure. If he had any suspicions about them, he did not voice them. To him, they were merely passengers with heavy purses and a need for discretion.

The Stormchaser would take them east, away from the chains of Volantis, away from the roads that had become too dangerous to tread. To Qarth, and to whatever awaited them beyond.

The narrow passageways of the Stormchaser creaked with the movement of the waves as Visenya and Daenerys made their way toward the small cabin Jorah had secured for them. The air below deck was thick with the scent of salt, damp wood, and the faint lingering traces of spices from previous voyages. The flickering lanterns set along the walls cast long, wavering shadows as they ducked through the low wooden doorway, stepping into their quarters for the duration of the journey.

The room was barely large enough to be called a cabin. It was cramped, little more than a narrow alcove with a wooden cot that spanned most of the space. The walls curved inward slightly with the shape of the ship, and a single small porthole let in slivers of weak daylight. Their saddlebags and belongings took up what little free space there was, leaving barely enough room for both of them to sit side by side on the bed. The constant creaking of the ship, the faint rocking motion beneath them, and the distant sounds of the crew moving about above deck all served as reminders that they were far from land now, fully committed to their journey east.

Visenya exhaled, dropping her pack near the foot of the cot as she took a seat. Daenerys did the same, adjusting her cloak as she leaned against her twin. "It’s smaller than I expected," she murmured, though there was no real complaint in her voice—only weary acceptance.

"We’ve had worse," Visenya replied, resting her hand lightly on her sister’s knee before turning her attention to the bags they had carried so carefully aboard.

Gently, they unfastened the straps and reached inside, releasing the dragons from their hidden confines. Sylveris was the first to emerge, stretching her wings before immediately curling herself around Visenya’s shoulders, her long tail looping loosely around her arm. Drakarion followed suit, hopping onto Daenerys’ lap with a pleased trill, pressing his head against her chest. Aenryx and Vaelyx were slower to emerge, yawning as they adjusted to their new surroundings before clambering into their respective mothers’ arms.

The cabin, though small, now felt fuller, more alive. The dragons made it so, their small bodies pressed close for warmth, their soft sounds filling the quiet of the room. They sniffed curiously at their surroundings, their heads tilting and tails twitching as they explored the small space. Vaelyx, ever the playful one, leapt from Visenya’s lap to Daenerys’ shoulder in an energetic burst, causing her to let out a breathless laugh as she caught him mid-air. Drakarion let out a small huff of displeasure, sulking at his sibling’s antics while Daenerys stroked his smooth scales.

"You need to be careful," Daenerys murmured, her fingers running along the developing ridges of Drakarion’s horns. "All of you. We are not alone on this ship, and if anyone were to see you, it could mean trouble."

Visenya ran a hand over Sylveris’ back, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing. "You must stay in the cabin," she added, looking at each of the dragons in turn. "No sneaking off, no exploring. If you need to stretch, we will let you when we can. But for now, you stay hidden."

The dragons, while still young, were not unintelligent. They responded with soft, acknowledging sounds, though Vaelyx chuffed in mild protest, clearly displeased at the idea of being confined. He flicked his tail in irritation before reluctantly settling down. Aenryx huffed but curled against Daenerys’ side, seemingly unbothered by the command. Sylveris, ever watchful, nestled more securely around Visenya’s shoulders, her amber eyes sharp as she surveyed the tiny space. Drakarion stretched, then resigned himself to pressing his warm body close to Daenerys, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment.

Daenerys sighed, shifting to lean her head against Visenya’s shoulder. "They don’t like it."

"Neither do I," Visenya admitted, tilting her head slightly to press a brief kiss to Daenerys’ brow. "But it’s what must be done. Just for now."

The ship rocked slightly as it continued to pull away from the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the hull a steady rhythm beneath them. For now, they were safe. For now, they had a moment of respite, wrapped in the warmth of each other and the presence of their dragons. The close quarters, though inconvenient, allowed them to sink into a quiet, comfortable togetherness, their bodies pressed close in the tight space, their hearts steady and synchronized with the soft breath of their dragons.

As the steady sway of the ship lulled them into stillness, Visenya absently traced patterns against Daenerys’ arm, a silent reassurance between them. No matter what came next, no matter what awaited them in Qarth, they would face it together.

~

The Stormchaser rocked gently as it began its slow, steady journey away from the docks of Volantis. The cries of gulls filled the air, their piercing calls mixing with the shouts of sailors and dockworkers below. The scent of brine, damp wood, and the lingering traces of exotic spices still clung to the ship, but with each passing moment, the sounds and smells of the great city faded behind them, swallowed by the vastness of the open sea.

Visenya and Daenerys stepped onto the deck, their cloaks wrapped tightly around them, the slight chill of the open sea brushing against their skin. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light across the waters, illuminating the rippling waves that stretched endlessly toward the horizon. Beneath their cloaks, nestled safely in their hidden pouches, their dragons stirred, their sharp instincts alert to the change in surroundings. As the ship moved further from the dock, small scaled heads began to peek out from the folds of fabric, their bright, intelligent eyes reflecting the light as they curiously took in the sight of Volantis shrinking in the distance.

Jorah stood nearby, leaning against the wooden railing, his eyes scanning the horizon with a practiced gaze. He did not speak but gave them a brief nod before turning his attention back to the sea. The crew bustled about, securing the rigging, adjusting the sails, and ensuring the ship was fully prepared for its long voyage east. The rhythmic creaking of the ship’s timbers, the occasional snap of taut rope, and the murmured voices of sailors created a constant backdrop of sound, grounding them in the reality of their journey.

Daenerys exhaled softly, her eyes lingering on the fading city. "It feels strange to leave a place behind like this," she murmured, her voice barely above the wind.

"We’ve been leaving places behind our whole lives," Visenya replied, her tone steady, yet carrying an undercurrent of emotion. "This time, at least, we choose where we go next."

Daenerys nodded, shifting closer so that their arms brushed. "And yet, I wonder if we will ever find a place to call home."

Visenya turned to look at her, violet eyes searching Daenerys’ expression. "We will," she said with certainty. "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but we will."

They stood in silence, side by side, the only sound the rhythmic crash of the waves against the ship’s hull and the distant chatter of the crew. Their dragons remained still, watching with a quiet, almost eerie attentiveness. Sylveris rested her head against Visenya’s collarbone, her amber eyes keen as she studied the receding city as if committing it to memory. Drakarion, ever the proud one, flicked his tongue at the salty air before letting out a soft huff, his dark, crimson-hued scales shimmering as he pressed closer against Daenerys' chest, as if displeased by yet another departure. Aenryx and Vaelyx, smaller and nestled together, clung to Daenerys, their tails curling around her wrist, their claws lightly gripping the fabric of her cloak as they took in the sight of the shifting waters and endless sky ahead.

As the last of Volantis disappeared from view, Daenerys reached for Visenya’s hand, squeezing it gently. "Then let’s find it together."

Visenya returned the squeeze, her grip firm, reassuring. "Together."

The ship pressed forward, the wind catching the sails as they glided deeper into the open sea. The warmth of their intertwined hands, the presence of their dragons nestled against them, and the vast world ahead—whatever awaited them, they would face it side by side, just as they always had.

~~

The days at sea had been long and uneventful, the Stormchaser gliding steadily through the open waters with only the rhythmic crash of waves against the hull to break the silence. The air was thick with the scent of salt and brine, and the endless horizon of blue stretched in every direction. The gentle creaking of the wooden planks beneath their feet was a constant, the ship swaying with the shifting currents, lulling many into a sense of calm.

But for Daenerys, the voyage had begun to take its toll.

By the third day, the gentle rocking of the ship no longer felt like a soothing lull but an unrelenting torment. The queasiness had started subtly, a mild discomfort that she had ignored, determined to push through. But by midday, her stomach twisted violently, and she barely made it to the side of the ship before retching into the sea. The wind carried the salt spray against her feverish skin, but it did nothing to soothe the sickening churn in her belly.

Visenya had been by her side in an instant, steadying her with a firm but gentle grip. "Breathe, dōna zaldrīzes," she murmured, rubbing soothing circles over Daenerys’ back as she held her up. "It will pass."

Daenerys groaned, her head resting against her sister’s shoulder. "It doesn’t feel like it," she whispered hoarsely, gripping the railing as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. The ship gave another lurch, and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the nausea away.

Visenya pressed a kiss to Daenerys' damp brow before carefully guiding her back below deck to their cabin. The cramped space felt even smaller as Visenya settled Daenerys onto their shared cot, brushing damp strands of silver hair away from her pale face. The dragons, sensing their mother’s distress, stirred from their usual spots, their small heads rising with soft, curious chirps. Their luminous eyes flickered in the dim lantern light as they took in Daenerys’ weakened state.

Sylveris was the first to move, slipping from Visenya’s shoulder to coil around Daenerys, pressing her cool body against her skin. Drakarion climbed onto the cot beside her, his dark-scaled snout nudging her cheek in concern, a low, rumbling growl vibrating from his throat as if in protest of her suffering. Aenryx and Vaelyx followed, nestling into the spaces between them, their combined warmth like a protective cocoon. The dragons trilled softly, their small bodies pressing against her, offering what comfort they could.

"Even our children worry for you," Visenya whispered, stroking Daenerys' cheek before pressing a cup of water to her lips. "Drink. It will help."

Daenerys took a small sip, her throat tight and dry. The cool liquid soothed her slightly, but the sickness still lingered beneath her skin. "I hate this," she muttered, frustration clear in her voice.

Visenya smiled softly, adjusting the blankets around her and tucking them securely. "You are not the first to feel this way on a ship, and you will not be the last. It will pass. Try to rest." She cupped Daenerys' cheek gently, thumb brushing over her soft skin in a calming motion. "I will stay with you."

Daenerys sighed, eyes fluttering shut as the ship rocked beneath them. The warmth of her dragons, the steady presence of Visenya, and the gentle weight of exhaustion pulled her under. As sleep claimed her, the last thing she felt was the reassuring touch of her sister’s hand in hers, anchoring her in the storm of her sickness.

Visenya watched over her, her fingers still intertwined with Daenerys', unwilling to let go. The dragons had nestled into each other, their breathing slow and even. The dim lantern light flickered against the wooden walls, casting long, shifting shadows as the ship continued its journey eastward. Visenya knew the sea would not always be kind, but as long as she had Daenerys, they would endure. Together.

~~

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light casting a shimmering path across the restless waves as the Stormchaser sailed southward along the remnants of the once-great Valyrian peninsula. The air was thick with salt, laced with the distant scent of something charred, an eerie echo of a catastrophe long past. The wind whistled through the rigging, the ship’s sails billowing as they cut through the sea, skirting the blackened ruins of what had once been the seat of the greatest empire the world had ever known. The crew moved quietly, as if reluctant to speak too loudly in the shadow of such devastation.

Daenerys, though still a little unsteady on her feet, had insisted on coming above deck. Days of seasickness had left her weary, but she refused to remain below while they passed by the land that had shaped their family’s history. Visenya had stayed close by her side, ever watchful, her hand lightly resting on Daenerys’ back as they leaned against the railing. The wind tugged at their cloaks, but neither moved to pull them tighter. There was something sacred about this moment, something that demanded quiet reverence.

The ruins of Valyria stretched beyond the horizon—jagged, broken silhouettes against the sky, their edges softened only by the hazy light of the setting sun. It was said that no one who ventured too close to the shattered lands ever returned. Even from a distance, the landscape looked unnatural, as though it still bore the wounds of the Doom that had sundered it. Choking black stone and rivers of hardened lava wove through the land like the veins of a dead beast, long since turned to ash. They had read the stories, heard the legends—of how fire and death had rained down, of the once-mighty Freehold reduced to ruin in a single, cursed day.

The twins remained wrapped in their cloaks, their dragons hidden but restless beneath the fabric. Every now and then, a small scaled head would peek out from the folds, sensing something in the air—something old, something familiar. Sylveris was the first to emerge, amber eyes flickering in the dimming light as she let out a soft, questioning trill. Drakarion soon followed, his dark snout sniffing the salty air as if he could sense the echoes of his ancestors in the ruins. Aenryx and Vaelyx stirred as well, shifting beneath the fabric, their wings twitching as though instinctively reacting to the presence of their homeland.

"This was our beginning," Daenerys murmured, her voice hushed, as if she feared speaking too loudly might disturb the ghosts of the past. "And our end."

Visenya’s violet eyes scanned the ruins, her expression unreadable. "Not our end," she corrected gently. "The end of the Freehold, perhaps. But we are still here. The blood of Valyria lives on."

Daenerys turned her gaze to her twin, searching her face. "Do you ever wonder what it was like? Before the Doom?"

Visenya hesitated, glancing back at the land that had birthed dragons and dragonlords alike. "I think it was magnificent. Terrible, perhaps, but magnificent. Power unmatched, wonders that no longer exist in this world." She sighed, her fingers brushing absently over Sylveris’ small form. "And yet, all that power could not save them from destruction."

Daenerys shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the setting sun. "Do you think it was a curse? Or something else?"

"Perhaps both." Visenya’s gaze lingered on the distant ruins, the shadows stretching as the sun dipped lower. "Magic always comes with a price." She glanced down at her own hands, flexing her fingers slightly, feeling the latent fire that simmered beneath her skin, the pulsing energy she had barely begun to understand in this world. It was different from before, not channeled through a wand, but raw and visceral. She could still feel the echoes of the fire she had unleashed in the Sorrows, the rush of power, the temptation of it.

For all the destruction Valyria had wrought, had they, too, felt the same hunger? Had their magic consumed them in the end? She could not deny how much she had enjoyed wielding that power, how natural it had felt, how right. And that thought unsettled her more than she was willing to admit.

Sensing the turmoil in her twin, Daenerys reached out, taking Visenya’s hand in her own, her fingers squeezing with quiet reassurance before she pulled it around herself. She nestled into Visenya’s side, pressing close, her presence warm and grounding. "You are not them," Daenerys whispered softly, resting her head against Visenya’s shoulder. "You never will be."

Visenya exhaled, tilting her head slightly to press her cheek against Daenerys’ temple. The sea stretched endlessly before them, carrying them past the broken land and into the unknown. Though they had never set foot in Valyria, they could feel its pull, the lingering presence of something ancient and long lost. The past may have crumbled into ruin, but as Visenya had said, they remained.

As they stood there, watching the ruins disappear into the horizon, the wind shifted, and the dragons pressed closer against them, as if drawn instinctively to the remnants of the past. The blood of the dragon still flowed in their veins. Whatever lay ahead, they would not be broken so easily.

Not like Valyria.

The Stormchaser sailed steadily through the open waters, the eerie ruins of Old Valyria slowly fading into the distance. The sea stretched vast and endless, its surface kissed by the dying light of the sun, which painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold. The air was heavy with salt and silence, a quiet reverence settling over the deck as if the echoes of Valyria’s destruction still whispered through the waves, telling stories of a civilization lost to fire and ruin.

Visenya and Daenerys stood together at the ship’s railing, wrapped in their cloaks, their dragons tucked safely beneath their arms. The warmth of their bodies pressed close, a shared comfort as they leaned into each other, gazing upon the blackened remnants of their ancestors’ home. The moment felt suspended in time, as if they stood between the past and the future, caught in the fragile space of what had been and what was yet to come.

The winds carried a distant scent of ash, even after centuries, as though the Doom still lingered in the air, refusing to be forgotten. The ruins of Valyria stretched beyond the horizon—jagged, broken silhouettes against the sky, their edges softened only by the hazy light of the setting sun. It was said that no one who ventured too close to the shattered lands ever returned. Even from a distance, the landscape looked unnatural, as though it still bore the wounds of the calamity that had sundered it. Choking black stone and rivers of hardened lava wove through the land like the veins of a dead beast, long since turned to ash.

Daenerys tilted her head, her silver hair catching the fading light. Something stirred within her, an odd sense of anticipation she couldn’t quite place. Her fingers tightened around Visenya’s hand as she lifted her gaze beyond the ruins, beyond the darkening sky—and then, she saw it.

A streak of red burned across the heavens, cutting through the sky like a wound, a firebrand against the growing twilight. A comet, brilliant and searing, trailing behind it a tail of shimmering crimson.

"Visenya," Daenerys breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Look."

Visenya followed her gaze, her breath catching in her throat. The sight was mesmerizing, a celestial omen streaking across the sky like the breath of a dragon. The reflection of the comet danced in the waves below, a burning path upon the water, stretching toward the horizon. The way the light shimmered across the sea made it look as though fire itself had taken to the waves, as if the Doom of Valyria still echoed in the world around them.

"A red comet…" Visenya murmured, her grip tightening instinctively around Daenerys. The fire in her veins pulsed in recognition, as though something ancient within her stirred at the sight. "A sign."

Daenerys nodded slowly, her heart pounding. "But of what?"

Visenya didn’t answer right away. The old texts spoke of signs in the sky, of omens heralding great change. A red comet had been seen before, tied to the fall of the last dragon. But now? Now, dragons had returned to the world.

"Change is coming," Visenya said at last, her voice steady, filled with certainty. "And we will be at its center."

Daenerys exhaled, leaning into her sister, her eyes never leaving the sky. The comet burned on, an unrelenting force, neither slowing nor fading. Their dragons shifted beneath their cloaks, as if sensing the same inevitability that coursed through them. Sylveris let out a quiet trill, pressing closer to Visenya’s chest, while Drakarion flicked his tongue as though tasting the air, watching the comet with intelligent, knowing eyes.

"Do you think others will see it as we do?" Daenerys whispered, still awed by the celestial fire streaking across the heavens.

Visenya was quiet for a long moment, considering the weight of history, the blood of their ancestors, and the power now coiled within them. "Some will see it as a warning," she said finally. "Others will see it as a promise. But I see it as a reminder—of what was, and of what we will become."

The sea stretched endlessly before them, carrying them past the broken land and into the unknown. Though they had never set foot in Valyria, they could feel its pull, the lingering presence of something ancient and long lost. The past may have crumbled into ruin, but as Visenya had said, they remained.

As they stood there, watching the ruins disappear into the horizon, the wind shifted, and the dragons pressed closer against them, as if drawn instinctively to the remnants of the past. The blood of the dragon still flowed in their veins. Whatever lay ahead, they would not be broken so easily.

Not like Valyria.

~~

Thousands of miles away, beneath the same crimson-streaked sky, another pair of violet eyes looked up at the red comet blazing high above Westeros.

Lyarra stood alone at the edge of Robb’s camp, her breath turning to mist in the cool night air. The fires of the battlefield had long since smoldered down to embers, the aftermath of the Whispering Woods still lingering in the air like a specter. Victory had been theirs, but it felt hollow. Moments before, they had received the news—Eddard Stark had been executed in King’s Landing. The words had echoed in her mind like a death knell, the weight of them heavier than any sword she had ever wielded. The shock had numbed her at first, but now, standing alone under the vast, uncaring sky, the truth settled into her bones like ice.

She had always known that the world was cruel, but this? This was more than she had been prepared to bear. A Stark lord had gone south and died at the hands of a king. And now, the North marched to war to rescue a Stark lady held captive. History repeated itself in a cruel, unrelenting cycle, and Lyarra could not shake the feeling that they were walking the same doomed path as before. She could almost hear the whispers of the past, the ghostly echoes of battles fought long ago—of swords clashing, men dying, and blood staining the snow.

Ghost pressed against her legs, his thick white fur warm in the night chill. He was the only comfort she had in this moment, the only soul who seemed to understand the storm raging inside her. She buried her fingers in his fur, gripping tighter than she intended, as if anchoring herself to something tangible before she was swept away by grief and fury.

Robb had Catelyn, his mother to hold him in his sorrow, to share the weight of their father’s death. But Lyarra? She had no one. She was left to her own grief, to the tempest of emotions that threatened to consume her. Was this war worth it? Was anything worth it? She had bled, fought, and killed for this cause already, and it had barely begun. What was she even fighting for now? Revenge? Justice? Or was it simply because there was nowhere else for her to go?

The comet blazed on, a streak of fire across the heavens, as if the gods themselves had drawn a blade against the sky. Some would call it an omen, but Lyarra did not know what it meant. Did it herald vengeance? Victory? Or was it simply another warning, another reminder that the world was on the brink of destruction? 

She exhaled sharply, tilting her head as the wind carried the distant sound of men drinking, celebrating their victory. They cheered for Robb, the Young Wolf, their King in the North. But she felt no triumph, only the empty ache of loss. A king they called him, and yet he had not even had time to grieve his father properly. She had seen the tension in his jaw, the way his hands curled into fists when he thought no one was looking. He bore his grief as he had been raised to—with quiet strength and unshaken resolve.

But Lyarra had no such strength left in her tonight. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. The world had stolen too much from her already. If war was the only path left, then she would not falter. She would march with Robb, fight for their home, and if the gods willed it, she would carve her own fate into the bloodied tapestry of history. Yet a part of her whispered that this was not the end of her journey. That her place was not in the North, nor in the halls of Winterfell or the battlefields of the Riverlands.

She stared at the comet burning in the sky, and deep in her heart, she felt something shift. She had always felt restless, always yearned for something beyond the walls of Winterfell. Now, that yearning burned hotter than ever. The road ahead was unclear, but she knew this much—she would not remain where she was told to be.

Ghost lifted his head, sniffing the air before letting out a low, quiet growl. Lyarra’s grip on his fur tightened. He sensed something, perhaps the same thing she did. A change in the wind, a shift in fate. The gods had made their move, and soon, it would be her turn.

Lyarra made her way back to her tent, weaving through the labyrinth of tents, past flickering fire pits where men sat nursing their wounds and raising cups in victory. The mingling scents of roasted venison, ale, and damp earth filled the air, a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on her chest. The celebrations rang hollow in her ears. Some men sang drunken songs of glory, others mourned in silence, staring into the flames as though they could glimpse the fallen within them. She passed men wrapping their arms around each other in grief, others boasting loudly of their feats in battle. It was a chaotic blend of triumph and sorrow, and Lyarra felt caught between the two, belonging to neither.

Ghost trotted silently beside her, his white fur a ghostly shimmer in the torchlight. His presence was a comfort, steady and unwavering as the war drums that had guided them into battle. The direwolf glanced up at her, his red eyes gleaming with something knowing, something she could not quite name.

She barely noticed the cold air biting at her skin as she finally reached her tent, pausing at the entrance for a brief moment. Taking a steadying breath, she pushed aside the heavy flap and stepped inside, away from the noise, away from the revelry, away from everything but the thoughts she could not silence.

She unstrapped her sword belt with practiced ease, placing it carefully to the side before pulling off her gloves. Her brigandine armour creaked slightly as she moved, the leather worn but sturdy, a second skin she had grown accustomed to. Despite her exhaustion, she felt too restless to sleep. With a slow exhale, she knelt down beside a small locked chest at the foot of her cot, fingers tracing over the iron-bound wood with a strange reverence. It had been with her for months now, yet she had barely allowed herself to acknowledge it, to touch what lay inside.

Lyarra reached into her pocket and retrieved the key, the weight of it familiar against her palm. She had carried it with her every day, tucked close to her heart, never allowing it to leave her person. With a quiet click, the lock released, and she slowly lifted the lid, the scent of old parchment and cedar wafting up from within.

There, nestled in the soft folds of deep blue velvet, was the dragon egg.

Its surface was icy blue, like the frozen lakes of the North in the dead of winter, its scales catching the dim candlelight and shimmering with an almost ethereal glow. It was cold to the touch, yet something about it felt alive, as though it held a slumbering heartbeat just beneath the surface, waiting, listening. The way it shimmered in the dim candlelight reminded her of something ancient, something that did not belong in this world. And yet, it was hers.

Master Luwin had given it to her the night Lord Stark had been arrested, pressing it into her hands with solemn urgency. "Your father instructed me to keep this safe for you. If anything happened to him, he wanted you to have it." Those words had echoed in her mind ever since, a puzzle she had yet to solve. Had Ned Stark always known? Known what she truly was? Had he foreseen the war, the blood, the betrayal? Or had he simply wanted to give her something that was hers alone, something that would make her feel less lost in the world?

Why had he given her this? Why had he kept it hidden all these years?

Lyarra ran her fingers over the smooth, cool surface, feeling a shiver run down her spine. This was no ordinary relic. It was a piece of something greater, something ancient. A secret buried beneath years of quiet, waiting for the right moment to be unearthed. She had heard the old stories, whispered in the halls of Winterfell, of dragon eggs that had turned to stone, of a time when her ancestors had ridden fire and fury across the skies. But this egg was not dead. She could feel it, something deep within, shifting, calling to her.

Ghost sniffed at the chest, his crimson eyes sharp with quiet curiosity. He huffed softly before settling down beside her, his warmth seeping into her side as she continued to stare at the egg. He had never reacted with fear to it, never bared his teeth or growled, as if he too sensed that it was something tied to her, something that belonged to her in a way she had yet to understand.

The red comet still burned outside, painting the sky with its fiery trail. A sign of change. Of something stirring. She could feel it in her very bones, a restless energy, a quiet certainty that the world was shifting beneath her feet.

She had always known she was different. Had always felt a restlessness that Winterfell could never contain. And now, holding this in her hands, she felt it more than ever.

Something was coming.

And she would be ready.

Chapter 7: VII

Summary:

A storm at sea of wind and fire.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

VII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The storm came upon them with little warning, fierce and unrelenting. The sky had darkened to an ominous shade of grey, thick clouds swirling like an angry beast above them. The sea churned violently, waves rising as high as walls, crashing against the ship with a force that sent tremors through the wooden planks. Rain lashed down in unrelenting sheets, driven by howling winds that screamed through the rigging like vengeful spirits. Lightning split the heavens, illuminating the chaos for brief moments before plunging them into darkness once more. Thunder roared in its wake, a deafening crack that seemed to shake the very bones of the ship.

Below deck, Daenerys remained in the cramped cabin, shielding the dragons from the worst of the ship’s violent rocking. She cradled all four of them close, feeling their warmth seep into her skin even as the chill of the storm pressed against the walls of the ship. Their small bodies trembled against her, wings folding tightly, tails tangling together. Drakarion and Aenryx nestled against her chest, trilling uneasily with each violent lurch of the ship. Sylveris and Vaelyx wrapped themselves around her arms, their tiny talons gripping the fabric of her cloak, eyes wide and alert.

She swallowed hard, stroking their smooth scales with gentle fingers, murmuring softly in High Valyrian. She was not sure if the words were meant to soothe the dragons or herself. Each cry, each sharp intake of breath, made her hold them tighter, as though she could shield them from the wrath of the storm through sheer will alone. She had always known that the sea could be merciless, but never had she felt so small against its might.

Visenya was on deck, bracing herself against the unrelenting winds and lashing rain. The ship groaned beneath her feet, the wooden beams creaking under the force of the storm. Her silver hair was soaked, whipping wildly around her face as she worked alongside Jorah and the crew, securing cargo, lashing down the sails, and ensuring nothing was lost to the greedy depths of the sea.

But it wasn’t enough. The storm was growing stronger.

Visenya could feel it—an ancient force, wild and untamed, coursing through the skies and the sea. It was beyond the power of men to fight, beyond the reach of sails and rudders. The ship pitched violently, the bow rising precariously before crashing down again, sending seawater cascading across the deck. A lesser vessel would have already been torn apart.

Her hands tightened on the rigging as the wind howled, and for a moment, she closed her eyes. She could feel the storm, not just around her, but within her. The fire that burned in her veins did not only belong to dragons. Valyria had been built on more than just steel and fire—it had been built on power, on magic older than the Doom itself. Magic that still lived in her blood.

Visenya exhaled sharply and reached for it.

The heat coiled within her, but she did not call forth fire this time. Instead, she reached beyond it, seeking the storm itself—the chaos, the fury, the unrelenting force of nature that threatened to swallow them whole. She did not fight it. She became part of it.

Her lips parted, and in the ancient tongue of her ancestors, she spoke, her voice carrying on the wind, laced with fire and strength.

"Dakogon lēda ñuha jelevre." Run with my breath.

The storm shuddered.

The winds did not stop, but they shifted, their howling less wild, less erratic. The waves still raged, but they no longer sought to consume the ship. The vessel still rocked, still fought against the storm’s fury, but no longer with the same reckless abandon. The crew hesitated, looking around as if sensing the shift, some muttering prayers to the gods.

Jorah turned to Visenya, his expression unreadable.

The magic thrummed within her, wild and eager, and she forced herself to let go of it, to ease her grip before it took too much. It was not fire, not ice, but something in between, something old and powerful that pulsed through her veins. The storm was still there, still fierce, but now it was hers to command.

As she breathed out, the ship sailed forward, cutting through the tempered wrath of the sea.

Below deck, Daenerys felt the shift. The dragons stopped their uneasy cries, pressing close against her, their small bodies no longer shaking with fear. She let out a slow breath, her fingers running over their scaled heads as they settled once more. Whatever had just happened, she knew it was Visenya’s doing.

And she knew, without a doubt, that no storm—of sea or man—would ever be enough to take her sister from her.

The ship cut through the waves, no longer at the mercy of the storm but sailing upon calmer waters. Though the winds still howled, their fury had been tempered, their force no longer enough to threaten the vessel’s integrity. The crew continued working tirelessly to secure the last of the ship’s rigging, checking the hull for damage, but the worst had passed. Visenya remained on deck for some time, ensuring the ship held steady, her soaked clothing clinging to her skin as she took in deep breaths of the salty air, her heart still hammering from the effort of bending the storm to her will.

Finally satisfied that everything was secure, she turned on her heel and descended the narrow stairs below deck, her boots leaving wet prints along the wooden planks. The moment she shut the cabin door behind her, she barely had time to react before four small but determined bodies launched themselves at her.

Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx clambered up her arms and shoulders, their claws digging into her soaked clothing as they pressed against her, their warmth seeping into her chilled skin. They trilled and chirped in concern, their tails wrapping around her limbs as if trying to make sure she was still there, still whole.

Daenerys was not far behind them, quickly stepping forward, her violet eyes filled with worry as she ran her hands along Visenya’s arms. "You’re freezing," she murmured, before reaching for the fastenings of Visenya’s soaked tunic. "Come, let me help."

Visenya let out a breath, feeling the exhaustion finally creeping in. "I’m fine, Dany."

Daenerys shot her a look that said she would not be argued with. "You always say that."

Visenya sighed but did not resist as Daenerys helped strip her from her drenched clothes, her touch gentle yet firm. The dragons remained close, nestling around them as warmth gradually returned to Visenya’s limbs. Once she was free of the soaked garments, Daenerys pulled out fresh clothes, guiding Visenya’s arms into the sleeves of a dry tunic and helping her step into warm trousers. As Daenerys wrapped a dry cloak around her sister’s shoulders, she pulled her close, pressing her forehead against Visenya’s. "You scared me," she admitted in a whisper.

Visenya closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean into Daenerys, into the comfort of her presence. "I know. But I’m here. Always."

Daenerys nodded, her grip tightening for a moment before she pulled away just enough to press a lingering kiss to Visenya’s brow. "Good," she whispered. "Now, let’s get you warm."

The cabin was small, barely enough for them and their dragons, but in that moment, surrounded by warmth and quiet reassurances, it was enough.

Daenerys all but pulled Visenya into the narrow bed, the urgency in her movements clear as she pressed her twin close, determined to chase away the last of the cold. The ship still creaked around them, the remnants of the storm stirring the waves beyond, but inside the cabin, there was only warmth—only them.

Visenya, exhausted from bending the storm to her will, barely protested as Daenerys gathered her up, arms wrapping securely around her. Normally, it was Visenya who held Daenerys at night, her body curled protectively around her sister, but tonight the roles were reversed. Daenerys clung to her just as tightly as their dragons clung to them, pressing their small bodies into every space between their mothers, providing warmth and reassurance with their presence.

Drakarion and Aenryx nestled between them, their tiny claws pressing into Visenya’s tunic, their heads tucked under her chin. Sylveris curled around her neck, her snowy white scales warm against her skin, and Vaelyx draped himself across Daenerys’s stomach, his tail occasionally flicking as he settled into sleep. The dragons were warm, their small bodies thrumming with life, and their presence was grounding, offering a comfort that neither twin could put into words. They were more than creatures born of fire and magic—they were a part of them, a part of the family they had forged together.

For a long while, neither twin spoke. Daenerys simply held Visenya, her hands resting on the small of her back, fingers tracing idle patterns through the fabric of her tunic. The storm had rattled her—not just the fear of the ship breaking apart beneath them, but the fear of losing Visenya. She had felt the shift in the air, had felt the magic surge through her twin as she spoke in High Valyrian and took command of the storm. It had been powerful, awe-inspiring—and terrifying.

“I thought I lost you,” Daenerys murmured finally, breaking the silence. Her voice was barely above a whisper, her breath warm against Visenya’s cheek. “The way the storm was… I was afraid it would take you.”

Visenya exhaled softly, tightening her grip around Daenerys’s waist. “I was never going to let that happen,” she reassured, her voice low, steady. “I had control, Dany.”

Daenerys let out a soft huff, her fingers tightening where they rested against Visenya’s back. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Daenerys pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her twin’s gaze. The cabin was dim, the lantern flickering softly, casting shadows across Daenerys’s face, highlighting the worry in her violet eyes. “You can’t promise me that,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “Magic—power—it takes as much as it gives. I saw the way it pulled at you, the way you felt it.”

Visenya swallowed, her throat tightening. Daenerys knew her too well. She had felt it, the intoxicating thrill of bending the elements, of feeling something so ancient and raw coursing through her veins. It had been different from the magic she had wielded as Victoria, where wands and incantations acted as a barrier between herself and the magic. Here, in this world, the magic was her , as natural as breathing.

And she had liked it.

That was what frightened her most.

Visenya looked away, pressing her forehead against Daenerys’s shoulder, hiding in her warmth. “I know,” she admitted, barely more than a breath. “But I’m still me. I won’t let it take me.”

Daenerys’s arms tightened around her, her lips brushing against Visenya’s temple in a feather-light kiss. “You better not,” she whispered. “Because I won’t lose you, Visenya.”

Visenya smiled faintly, feeling the tension in her limbs finally ease. “You won’t,” she promised.

Daenerys shifted, pulling Visenya closer still, letting their legs tangle together as their bodies pressed into each other. It wasn’t just warmth that they sought—it was reassurance, a silent promise that they were still here, still together. Visenya could feel Daenerys’s heartbeat against her own, a steady, soothing rhythm that grounded her more than anything else.

“Sleep,” Daenerys whispered, brushing her lips against Visenya’s brow once more. “I have you.”

Visenya sighed softly, letting herself relax fully against Daenerys, the exhaustion finally overtaking her. As she drifted off, she realized she truly believed what she had said. No storm, no power, no magic—nothing would take her from Daenerys.

Nothing ever would.

The lantern flickered softly, casting golden light that danced along the wooden walls of their small cabin. The ship swayed gently now, the storm long past, leaving only the steady lull of waves to rock them into slumber. Wrapped in the warmth of their shared bed, the twins lay close, their bodies pressed together, legs tangled in the comfort of familiarity, their breaths synchronized as if their very souls beat in harmony.

Visenya sighed softly, adjusting her hold on Daenerys, pulling her a little closer. Normally, it was her twin who clung to her, seeking the comfort of her presence, but tonight, Daenerys had been the one to gather Visenya into her arms, unwilling to let her go. It felt different somehow—deeper, heavier, as though words lingered unspoken between them, waiting to be acknowledged.

Daenerys’s fingers traced light patterns along Visenya’s back, slow and soothing, a grounding touch that neither of them questioned. The intimacy had always been there, but something about tonight made it feel sharper, more potent, like a string pulled taut between them, waiting to snap. It was as if the storm they had weathered outside had mirrored the storm within her own heart, churning and rising, daring to break free.

“Visenya…” Daenerys murmured, her voice hushed, almost hesitant. Her breath was warm against Visenya’s ear, and the way she whispered her name sent a soft shiver down Visenya’s spine.

Visenya hummed, half-dazed with sleep, but not enough to miss the shift in her sister’s tone. “Hmm?”

Daenerys hesitated. The words sat on her tongue, heavy and uncertain, pressing against the edges of her resolve. She wanted to say them. She wanted to admit what had been building between them, the pull that felt as natural as breathing. It wasn’t just the bond of twins, wasn’t just the connection of sisters who had only ever had each other. It was more. It had always been more.

Her fingers stilled against Visenya’s back, pressing lightly into the fabric of her tunic. Her lips parted, the confession resting there, poised on the edge of being spoken. Her heart thundered against her ribs, fear and longing warring inside her. It would be so easy to say it, to whisper the truth she had held in her heart for so long. But the words felt too big, too dangerous, as though speaking them would shatter the fragile, precious thing between them.

But fear held her back.

What if she was wrong? What if she ruined the closeness they shared? What if Visenya didn’t—

A soft sigh escaped her twin as Visenya shifted, nestling closer, her warmth wrapping around Daenerys like a protective cocoon. The scent of her, warm and familiar, filled Daenerys’s senses, grounding her in the present moment.

“Sleep, Dany,” Visenya murmured, her voice full of quiet affection, unaware of the battle raging in her sister’s heart.

Daenerys swallowed hard, exhaling slowly. Her grip on Visenya tightened for a moment before she let her eyes slip shut, the confession lost to the quiet of the night. But the feeling remained, thrumming beneath her skin, an ache she could not name, a need she could not yet voice.

She pressed closer, tucking her head beneath Visenya’s chin, listening to the steady heartbeat that had always been her anchor. In the morning, perhaps, she would find the courage. Perhaps, when the world was quiet and safe, she could finally say what had always been there.

Not yet.

But soon.

~~

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen across the waves as the ship steadily cut through the sea. The air was thick with the briny scent of salt and the occasional cry of gulls circling high above. For days, the voyage had been uneventful, the waters calm, the winds steady. But the peace was not meant to last.

The cry of the lookout shattered the tranquil hum of the ship’s passage.

“Ships on the horizon! Corsairs approaching fast!”

The crew erupted into action, feet pounding against the wooden deck as they rushed to ready weapons, batten down loose supplies, and prepare for the inevitable conflict. The captain barked orders, his voice cutting through the growing din, but the rising tension in the air was palpable. The sailors worked with frantic efficiency, securing ropes, loading crossbows, and making ready for battle. The merchant vessel, while sturdy, was no warship. It lacked the defenses to stand against seasoned raiders, and everyone on board knew it.

Visenya and Daenerys emerged from their cabin, their dragons shifting restlessly beneath their cloaks, their wings twitching as if sensing the danger. Jorah was already on deck, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his expression grim. His weathered gaze swept across the horizon before settling on the incoming ships, his jaw tightening.

“They’re fast,” he muttered, watching the sleek, black-sailed vessels gaining ground. “They’ve got the wind with them, and they’re closing in quick.”

Visenya narrowed her eyes at the approaching ships. Even from a distance, she could see the sigils of the Basilisk Isles adorning their sails—pirates, slavers, and cutthroats who preyed on the unguarded. Her fingers itched to draw Dark Sister, but she forced herself to remain still, assessing their options.

“We’re not outrunning them,” the captain growled, sweat beading on his brow. “They’ll be upon us within the hour.”

A ripple of unease ran through the crew, some muttering curses, others tightening their grips on cutlasses and bows. There was little chance of mercy from corsairs. They lived for blood and plunder, and they would show no kindness to those aboard a merchant vessel. Fear was evident on many faces, but there was also grim determination. They had no choice but to fight.

Daenerys turned to Visenya, worry flickering in her violet eyes. “We can’t let them take the ship.”

Visenya exhaled slowly, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. “They won’t.”

A spark of something dark and deep stirred within her, a slow, familiar burn in her veins, a promise of power waiting to be unleashed. The dragons sensed it too, their small, sharp claws flexing against the fabric of their cloaks, their golden eyes gleaming in anticipation. Sylveris let out a low hiss, while Drakarion shifted, his tiny wings stretching beneath the folds of Daenerys’s cloak. Aenryx and Vaelyx crouched lower in their carriers, their eyes darting toward the incoming ships as though they understood the coming danger.

The wind howled, carrying the distant sound of war cries as the corsairs closed in. The distant shouts of raiders carried over the waves, their voices eager, assured in their victory.

Visenya did not share their confidence. Not for them.

The air was thick with tension as the corsair ships closed the distance, their black sails looming like the wings of vultures against the horizon. The rhythmic crash of the waves was soon overpowered by the hurried footsteps of the crew, their voices sharp with anxiety as they made their final preparations. The ship was no war vessel, and they all knew the odds were against them. The scent of salt and sweat filled the air, but beneath it, a deeper fear coiled like a serpent in the belly of each man.

Visenya turned to Daenerys, gripping her shoulders with more force than she intended. "Dany, I need you to stay in our cabin with the dragons. Keep them safe."

Daenerys’s body tensed, her breath hitching as her violet eyes burned with fierce defiance. "No, Visenya, I won’t hide while you fight. We fight together."

Visenya exhaled sharply, willing herself to remain calm, even as her heart pounded painfully in her chest. "We do. But not this time. They need you, Dany. If anything happens to me, they need their mother. They need you to survive."

Daenerys clenched her jaw, hands gripping Visenya’s arms as if holding onto her with sheer force could change fate. Every instinct screamed at her not to leave her twin behind. They had always faced danger side by side, and the thought of not being there if something happened—if this was the last time they saw each other—made her stomach churn with dread.

"I can’t just—" her voice cracked, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. "You have to come back. Promise me."

Visenya’s eyes softened, though fear churned deep within her as well. She pressed her forehead against Daenerys’s, lingering for a long moment, as if trying to memorize the warmth of her sister’s skin, the way her breath hitched slightly when she was emotional. "Always."

Daenerys swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as she reluctantly stepped away. The dragons chirped and hissed in protest, sensing the rising storm of emotions. Drakarion, ever the defiant one, squirmed against her hold, trying to free himself and remain with Visenya. She held him tighter, whispering soft reassurances even as her fingers trembled.

But it was Sylveris who truly resisted. The snowy white dragon clung to Visenya’s shoulder, her sharp claws gripping as if she refused to be parted from her bonded. Her amber eyes, deep and intelligent, locked onto Visenya’s with something so familiar it made her breath hitch. She had seen those eyes before, in another life, full of unwavering loyalty and love.

The memory flashed through her mind like a dagger of ice. The moment those same amber eyes had dimmed, the pain of watching her closest companion die for her. Even now, she still had nightmares about it. Her throat tightened as she gently stroked Sylveris’s head, voice softer now. "You need to stay with Dany. Keep her safe for me, alright?"

Sylveris let out a low, rumbling sound, reluctant but understanding, before finally releasing her hold and settling into Daenerys’s arms.

"Jorah, guard the door," Daenerys said, her voice firm but strained as she turned toward the cabin.

Jorah inclined his head, his hand already resting on the hilt of his sword. "With my life, Princess."

Visenya watched as Daenerys disappeared into the cabin, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. A part of her wanted to rush after her, to keep her close, to never let go—but she knew that was weakness speaking. The battle was coming. She had no choice but to face it.

The distant war cries of the corsairs carried over the waves, a chilling prelude to the violence ahead. The ship rocked beneath her feet as she turned back toward the deck, her grip tightening on the hilt of Dark Sister. Fear still lingered at the edges of her mind, but she forced it down, channeling it into steel-eyed resolve.

Visenya strode onto the deck, her steps steady despite the rolling sea beneath her feet. The sky above was dark with storm clouds, casting ominous shadows across the waves, the scent of salt and sweat thick in the air. The tension among the crew was suffocating, their fear palpable as they moved with frantic urgency, tying down ropes and preparing for the inevitable clash.

She ascended the stairs to the higher deck, her grip tightening around the hilt of Dark Sister as she drew the Valyrian steel blade free. The whispering sound of steel sliding from its sheath sent a shiver down the spines of those near her. The weight of the sword was familiar, an extension of herself, ready to strike, ready to kill.

The corsairs were almost upon them, their black-sailed ships cutting through the water like predators hunting prey. Shouts echoed across the waves, guttural war cries filled with cruelty and hunger. The crew of the merchant vessel braced themselves, their hands gripping weapons—rusty cutlasses, sharpened fishing spears, wooden clubs—but it was clear most of them had never been in a true battle. They were traders, deckhands, and sailors, not soldiers.

Visenya swept her gaze across them, seeing the tightness in their expressions, the way their eyes darted to the enemy ships with barely concealed dread. They were afraid, but fear was only useful if tempered into something stronger.

She lifted Dark Sister high, letting the morning light catch the blade, its rippling Valyrian steel gleaming like molten fire. "Steady yourselves!" she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "They expect us to break—they expect fear! Give them steel instead!"

A few sailors exchanged glances, their grips tightening on their weapons. Some nodded, the words settling into them, a newfound resolve hardening their spines. A burly sailor brandished a harpoon, his knuckles white with tension, but his stance more sure than before. Another, a young boy barely past his teenage years, trembled but forced himself to raise a dagger, jaw clenched. It was not perfect, but it was something.

The ship lurched as the first grappling hooks clanged against the railing, the corsairs shouting as they heaved the ropes, pulling themselves closer. The gap between the vessels was closing fast, and soon the decks would be awash with blood.

Visenya rolled her shoulders, exhaling slowly. The fire inside her stirred, coiling like a living thing, eager to be unleashed. Her grip on Dark Sister tightened. Blood would be spilled this day, and she would make sure it was not hers or Daenerys’s.

The corsairs swarmed onto the deck like a tide of steel and violence, their boots thudding heavily against the wooden planks as they leapt from their own vessels. The first wave came in snarling, their weapons flashing in the dim light, their eyes filled with the greed of men who had raided before and expected little resistance. Their ragged clothing and stained armor smelled of salt, sweat, and blood, a stark contrast to the fresh sea air that now reeked of impending death.

Visenya did not wait for them to strike first.

Dark Sister cut through the air, swift and precise, the Valyrian steel biting deep into the first corsair’s throat. The man barely had time to gurgle before blood sprayed outward, hot and thick, splattering across the deck. His body crumpled like a broken puppet, and Visenya stepped over him without hesitation. She pivoted, ducking under a wild swing of an axe, her feet sliding slightly as she adjusted to the unfamiliar sway of the ship beneath her. The wooden planks were slick with seawater and the first spills of crimson, forcing her to remain light on her feet.

The next corsair lunged, swinging a curved sword at her side. She barely managed to twist out of the way, the edge of the blade slicing through the fabric of her sleeve and grazing her skin. A sharp sting flared along her arm, but she ignored it, stepping inside the man's reach and driving Dark Sister through his ribs. A sickening crunch echoed as the blade carved through bone, and she twisted it free in one fluid motion, sending him crumpling to the deck, his lifeblood spilling in waves beneath him.

Around her, the battle raged. The merchant crew fought with desperation, hacking with cutlasses and driving spears forward with trembling hands. Some had never fought before, their swings clumsy, their terror evident in their darting eyes. Blood slicked the planks, making footing treacherous as bodies fell, some screaming, some silent as death claimed them instantly. The stench of sweat, salt, and the coppery tang of blood filled Visenya’s nostrils, thick and suffocating. The air itself seemed to tremble with the echoes of steel clashing, the guttural cries of the dying, and the desperate grunts of men fighting for their lives.

A burly corsair, taller and broader than the others, came at her with a jagged-edged blade. He swung down with brute force, aiming to split her from shoulder to hip. Visenya barely dodged, rolling to the side and coming up with her sword raised just in time to parry his next strike. Sparks flew as steel clashed against steel. The man's strength was formidable; each blow he landed against her guard sent shocks of pain down her arms. She gritted her teeth, refusing to yield an inch.

She needed to end this quickly.

Using the ship’s roll to her advantage, she let herself sway with the movement, avoiding his next strike. Then she lunged, feinting low before snapping her blade up. Dark Sister slashed across his face, carving through his cheek and sending a spray of blood arching through the air. He roared in pain, staggering back, and she wasted no time. She drove her sword into his gut, feeling the resistance of flesh and muscle before the blade punched through his back. His breath came out in a wet, rattling gasp, eyes wide with shock before he collapsed in a lifeless heap.

She yanked Dark Sister free just as another corsair tried to come at her from behind. Instinct alone saved her—she spun, slicing without thinking. The edge of her sword cleaved through his shoulder, nearly severing his arm. He fell with a scream, writhing as dark blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the wood. Visenya kicked his weapon away, her breathing sharp, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. The rush of battle thrummed in her veins, a fire in her blood that she had felt only a few times before—but never on a battlefield made of shifting wood and crashing waves, never against so many at once.

The ship lurched beneath her as another corsair vessel rammed alongside, sending a fresh wave of enemies clambering up the ropes. Their war cries pierced the night, savage and triumphant, as if they had already won.

She had no intention of letting them.

Her grip tightened on Dark Sister, blood dripping from its blade. More corsairs came, eager to cut her down, but she stood her ground, her feet steady, her resolve unshaken. She could hear the chaos below deck, shouts and the sound of scuffling as Jorah held his ground near Daenerys. Her sister. Her family. Her purpose.

Visenya squared her shoulders, exhaled slowly, and met the next wave with steel and fire.

The ship groaned under the weight of battle, the crash of waves against its hull drowned out by the clang of steel, the screams of the wounded, and the snarls of men who had long since abandoned their souls to violence. The scent of blood was thick, iron-heavy in the salty sea air, mingling with the acrid sting of sweat and death. The cries of dying men mixed with the relentless howl of the wind, the ship rocking violently as the chaos of combat consumed its deck.

Visenya stood in the midst of the storm of steel, her breath steady despite the exhaustion creeping into her limbs. Dark Sister dripped crimson, its Valyrian steel edge catching the dim light, gleaming with the lifeblood of those who had already fallen to her blade. The deck was slick beneath her boots, treacherous with seawater and gore. Around her, corpses of crew and corsairs alike littered the wooden planks, broken and bleeding, their bodies sprawled in the violent stillness of death. The ship itself groaned under the weight of bodies, as if lamenting the massacre taking place upon its deck.

Yet more kept coming.

A group of corsairs, larger and more organized than the previous waves, took note of her, eyes gleaming with recognition. They had seen her fight. Seen how she had cut down their comrades like wheat before a scythe. And now they circled her like wolves, grinning with twisted amusement, leering at the way her chest rose and fell with exertion, at the way her sweat-soaked tunic clung to her. Their weapons were still raised, but their eyes promised something far worse than death.

"You fight well, little girl," one of them sneered, a man with rotting teeth and a voice like crushed gravel. He swung a notched cutlass lazily, as if testing the weight before he would strike. "Almost a shame to kill you so quick."

"Maybe we won’t kill her quick," another laughed, his grin showing missing teeth. "Might have some fun first. Bet she screams real pretty."

Laughter rippled through the group, crude and vile.

Visenya didn’t flinch.

Instead, she let the fire in her veins burn hotter, let it feed the storm of fury rising within her. She lifted Dark Sister, shifting her grip, her knuckles tightening around the hilt. A slow exhale, measured. The bloodlust in their eyes meant they underestimated her. That would be their mistake.

"Try it," she said, her voice like tempered steel, cool and sharp. "See how much fun you have when I cut your cocks off and feed them to the sea."

Their grins faltered for the barest second, some hesitating just enough for her to strike. She moved first, lunging forward with a speed that caught them off guard. Dark Sister flashed in the dim light, slicing clean through the throat of the closest corsair before he could even raise his weapon. His body crumpled, gurgling on his own blood before collapsing in a heap at her feet.

The hesitation vanished, replaced with rage.

The remaining corsairs attacked at once.

She twisted, narrowly dodging a wild swing aimed at her ribs, her boot skidding across the blood-slicked deck. Another blade came at her from the side, but she ducked low, feeling the cold kiss of steel grazing the edge of her shoulder, shallow but enough to sting. She retaliated instantly, slashing upward, opening a deep gash in the attacker’s gut. His scream was cut short as she shoved him backward, sending him crashing against the mast before he crumpled, blood gushing from the mortal wound.

Another came at her from behind, but she spun, lifting Dark Sister just in time to parry. Sparks flew as their blades met, the force of it sending a jolt up her arm. He was stronger, but she was faster. She let him press forward, feigning struggle, before she twisted and used his own weight against him. Her knee shot up, driving into his gut, and as he doubled over with a wheezing gasp, she drove her blade through his exposed neck. His body slumped forward, lifeless.

Two remained, their previous bravado faltering, replaced with something colder—uncertainty.

Visenya smirked, blood staining her lips where a rogue fist had split the corner of her mouth. "Not laughing anymore?"

The larger of the two let out a furious snarl and charged. He was faster than the others, more experienced, his swings controlled and precise. Their blades clashed, sparks flying as she fought to match his power. The force of his attacks sent shocks through her bones, but she gritted her teeth and held her ground. He struck downward, and she dodged, but the movement cost her. The second corsair lunged from the side, slamming the pommel of his weapon into her ribs.

Pain exploded through her side, but she refused to fall.

Gritting her teeth, she used the momentum to spin, twisting around and bringing Dark Sister up in a deadly arc. The blade cleaved through the first man's arm at the elbow, severing it clean. He howled in agony, stumbling backward, but she didn’t give him a chance to recover. A second slash opened his throat, his cries gurgling to silence as he collapsed onto the bloodied deck.

The final corsair hesitated, sweat dripping down his face, his hands trembling around his sword.

He turned to run.

Visenya didn’t let him.

Dark Sister sang through the air, the edge of the blade slicing through the back of his knee, severing tendons. He collapsed with a strangled scream, clawing at the deck as he tried to crawl away. Visenya approached slowly, her breath heavy, her body aching but still standing tall. She knelt beside him, gripping the back of his hair and yanking his head up so he was forced to look at her.

"This is the part where I let you beg," she whispered, voice edged with fire.

He whimpered.

She slit his throat.

The battle still raged around her, but the space directly around her was now littered with broken bodies, their blood pooling, steaming in the cold air. The crimson stained the wood beneath her feet, turning the ship into a floating charnel house.

Visenya exhaled, flicking Dark Sister to rid it of the worst of the blood, though the blade was already drenched in red.

The storm of battle raged across the ship, the crash of steel and the screams of dying men blending with the roaring waves. Blood slicked the deck, mixing with seawater in a grotesque, crimson sheen. The scent of iron and salt was thick in the air, choking, drowning out all other sensations save for the overwhelming presence of death. The cries of the wounded and dying mixed with the howling wind, creating a chaotic symphony of violence and destruction.

Visenya was a force of nature amidst the chaos, her body moving with an almost supernatural fluidity as she weaved between blades and bodies. Dark Sister flashed in her hands, carving through flesh and bone, the Valyrian steel singing with each strike. The corsairs fought with ruthless desperation, but she was no ordinary opponent. Fire burned in her veins, igniting her senses, feeding her every movement with raw, unrelenting power. The battle was not simply a clash of steel; it was a dance, and she was its most skilled performer.

A blade swung toward her ribs, but she twisted with inhuman speed, the edge barely grazing her tunic. With a snarl, she countered, driving Dark Sister through the attacker's chest. He let out a strangled gasp, blood bubbling from his lips as she wrenched the sword free and turned to face the next threat. Another corsair lunged at her with a jagged cutlass, his eyes wild with battle fury. Visenya ducked beneath the clumsy strike, stepping forward and ramming the hilt of her sword into his face with bone-shattering force. The crunch of cartilage breaking was almost lost amidst the sounds of battle, but the way he crumpled to the deck was unmistakable.

Her breath came in measured pants, sweat slicking her skin, but the exhaustion that should have weighed her down was drowned by the fire coursing through her. She could feel the magic thrumming beneath her flesh, a deep and ancient force she barely understood but instinctively wielded. It strengthened her muscles, sharpened her reflexes, pushed her beyond the limits of mortal endurance. It whispered to her, urging her to let go, to unleash its full force upon those who dared to stand in her way. And gods, it felt good. The heat, the raw, electric thrill of power surging through her, made her feel invincible.

A corsair tried to rush her from behind, but she sensed him before he struck. Spinning on her heel, she extended her free hand, the air shimmering around her fingers. With a single word in High Valyrian, a burst of flame erupted from her palm, engulfing the man in searing heat. His screams echoed over the waves as he collapsed, writhing, his flesh blackening in the inferno. The fire licked at the surrounding deck, the heat momentarily casting Visenya’s features in an almost ethereal glow.

More of them came, undeterred by the sight of their burning comrade. She was their target now, the threat they could not ignore. A group of them, five in total, closed in around her. They circled her, wary now, their earlier arrogance replaced with cold calculation. Their eyes flicked between her and the bodies already strewn across the deck, a silent acknowledgment of the formidable opponent before them.

One moved first, a burly man wielding twin axes. He swung at her legs, aiming to cripple rather than kill, but she leapt over the blow, landing light on her feet. Another attacked from the side, but she twisted, bringing Dark Sister up in a vicious arc, slicing through his arm at the elbow. A gurgled scream ripped from his throat as he staggered back, blood spurting from the severed limb. He collapsed onto the deck, writhing in pain, his cries quickly drowned out by the chaos around them.

A third man lunged for her as his comrade fell, his curved blade aiming for her throat. Visenya met him head-on, parrying the strike and stepping inside his guard. Her free hand shot out, fingers curling around his throat as she lifted him clean off the ground. His eyes bulged, his hands clawing at hers, but she didn’t let go. Fire coiled around her fingers, searing his flesh, and when she finally released him, his body crumpled lifeless to the deck. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air, thick and acrid.

The madness was there, a whisper in her mind, an intoxicating need for destruction that coiled in the depths of her soul. It was the same hunger she had felt before to a much lesser extent, in another life, when she had unleashed her magic in battle. This time, there were no wands, no incantations in Latin, only raw, ancient power drawn from the very blood of Old Valyria itself. She could burn them all if she wanted to. She could drown them in fire and watch the ship turn to ash. The temptation was as strong as it was thrilling.

The remaining two hesitated, exchanging glances, their confidence shaken, the arrogance they had worn so brazenly now crumbling beneath the weight of the carnage around them. They had expected easy prey—a simple raid with little resistance. Instead, they found themselves standing before something far worse than an armed opponent.

Visenya grinned, lips smeared with blood—some of it hers, most of it not. "Not laughing anymore?" she taunted, her voice a low purr, almost teasing, though there was something in her eyes that spoke of barely leashed savagery. The flickering light of the fires she had conjured cast eerie shadows across her face, making her appear less human, more demon than warrior.

The flames crackled, feeding on the spilled oil and wreckage. Magic pulsed through her, licking at the edges of her consciousness like a siren’s song, seductive in its promise of destruction. It whispered that she could end this now, that all she needed to do was let go—let the fire consume, let it devour. The thought was intoxicating. She could feel the heat within her, coiling in her veins, stronger than it had ever been before. 

They hesitated for a second too long.

She moved faster than their eyes could follow, ducking low and slicing Dark Sister through one man’s legs, severing tendons with surgical precision. He fell with a choked scream, his weapon clattering to the deck as his hands scrabbled uselessly at his ruined limbs. Before his companion could react, she turned her blade on him, driving it deep into his gut. He gasped, a wet, gurgling sound as blood bubbled past his lips. She twisted the sword cruelly before ripping it free, letting him collapse in a heap at her feet. The blood sprayed in a wide arc, adding to the crimson slick pooling beneath her boots.

The ship trembled beneath her, but it was not from the fighting. The corsairs who had yet to engage were beginning to falter, eyes darting between their dwindling numbers and the death-strewn deck. They had come expecting coin, expecting captives, expecting an easy victory. Instead, they had found a nightmare wrapped in steel and flame.

Some turned and fled, scrambling back toward the railings, diving into the black waters rather than face the fury before them. Others hesitated, shifting uncertainly, weighing whether the coin was worth the risk.

Visenya stood among the fallen, Dark Sister dripping red, the air around her shimmering with the heat of her magic. 

It was no longer a battle. It was a rout. The corsairs broke, scrambling to escape. Those who could ran, those who could not were left behind to die.

The fight was over. But the fire inside her was still burning.

With the Corsairs fleeing, Visenya stood amidst a pile of the dead, the magic and madness still thrumming inside her, a relentless force refusing to be silenced. Her breath came in deep, ragged pulls, her body alight with the heat of the battle. She barely noticed the way the sea spray, sweat, and blood that coated her skin began to sizzle and evaporate, steam rising from her as if she were forged in fire itself. Her heart pounded in her chest, not from exhaustion but from exhilaration. The magic still surged through her veins, hungry, insatiable, whispering that she could take more, do more, that she was not finished.

The flames along the deck flickered as if in response to her heartbeat, to the raw force of her will. The air around her shimmered with heat, distorting the space between her and the few remaining crew members who dared to look upon her. They stood frozen, watching in awe and terror, none daring to step closer. They might have called her a dragon in human form, a being of legend reborn in blood and flame. But she barely noticed them. The magic was still there, singing in her bones, a tempest waiting to be unleashed again.

Then, a familiar presence cut through the haze.

"Visenya."

Soft, gentle, firm.

Daenerys.

Before she even realized it, Daenerys was there, wrapping her arms around her from behind, pressing herself against Visenya’s burning skin. Anyone else would have been seared by the heat, but not Daenerys. Never Daenerys. She was untouched by fire, as was Visenya. The moment Daenerys’ arms tightened around her, the madness recoiling within her soul shuddered, the heat of battle beginning to subside, slowly, like embers cooling after a roaring blaze.

"It's over," Daenerys murmured, her breath warm against Visenya’s ear. "Let go, sister. Let the fire rest."

Visenya's fingers twitched around the hilt of Dark Sister, her grip still tight as though the sword itself was a tether to the power surging within her. Her entire body trembled—not with weakness, but with the overwhelming intensity of what still coursed through her. The magic did not want to be silenced. It wanted to burn, to consume, to prove itself again and again.

Daenerys turned her slightly, enough that their eyes met. Daenerys’ violet gaze held no fear, no hesitation, only warmth and understanding. "I'm here. You're safe. We are safe."

Slowly, the fire inside her began to fade, the raging inferno easing into embers. The breath she exhaled was heavy, filled with the last vestiges of war, of bloodlust, of power. She loosened her grip on Dark Sister, allowing the blade to lower, her fingers flexing as the heat in her veins dulled. The steam that had been rising from her skin began to dissipate, leaving only the faint warmth of her presence.

Daenerys pressed her forehead to Visenya’s, grounding her. "You don’t have to fight alone. You never have to be alone."

A shuddering exhale left Visenya’s lips, her arms finally lifting to wrap around Daenerys, pulling her close, anchoring herself in the presence of the only person who had ever made her feel truly safe. The battle was over, the corsairs gone, and yet she knew that her war—with her magic, with the madness, with herself—was far from finished.

Daenerys led Visenya back to their cabin, her arm wrapped tightly around her twin’s waist, supporting her as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of the ship. The crew parted for them in hushed silence, casting wary glances at the blood-streaked warrior whose blade had cut down so many men with unrelenting precision. Some whispered prayers, others averted their eyes, unwilling to meet the gaze of a woman who had fought like a demon made flesh. But Daenerys had no time for them—her only concern was the woman beside her, whose steps faltered despite her stubborn determination to stay upright.

The moment they crossed the threshold of their small cabin, Daenerys shut the door firmly behind them, sealing them away from the world. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned, violet eyes scanning her twin’s form with unhidden worry. Visenya was still standing, though just barely, her body swaying as though caught between exhaustion and the lingering remnants of battle-fueled adrenaline. The heat that radiated from her skin was unnatural, her magic still simmering beneath the surface, barely contained.

Without a word, Daenerys stepped forward and reached for Dark Sister, her hands careful as she pried the ancient blade from Visenya’s grip. There was no resistance, only a heavy exhale as Visenya allowed herself to relinquish it, her fingers flexing as if reluctant to part with the familiar weight. Daenerys placed the sword gently beside their bedrolls, ensuring it was within reach but no longer a burden upon her twin’s exhausted frame.

Then, with painstaking tenderness, Daenerys reached for Visenya’s ruined clothing. The tunic, torn and bloodied, clung to her skin as though it had become part of her. Daenerys unlaced the front with deft hands, peeling away the fabric to reveal the evidence of the battle—bruises blooming across pale flesh, shallow cuts that had barely begun to scab over, and the faint shimmer of heat that still lingered on her skin, the aftershocks of the power she had wielded so ruthlessly.

The dragons chirped softly from their perch near the bed, their bright eyes filled with worry. They had felt it too—the sheer, unrelenting force of Visenya’s magic, the way it had surged like wildfire, barely leashed. Sylveris let out a plaintive whine, fluttering closer until she pressed against Visenya’s side, her small, warm body a source of comfort as she curled protectively around her mother.

"They felt it too," Daenerys whispered, her voice unsteady as she set the tunic aside, her hands now moving to the belt securing Visenya’s breeches. "They felt you."

Visenya let out a breath, slow and deep, her shoulders sagging. "I know." Her voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. The magic had drained her, left her raw and exposed. She lifted a hand, running trembling fingers over Sylveris’ scales, the familiar warmth grounding her. "I felt them too."

Daenerys nodded, swallowing against the tightness in her throat as she finished undressing her twin. Grabbing a damp cloth, she began to wipe away the grime of battle, her movements careful, reverent. The warm water soothed, washing away the blood and sweat, revealing nothing but the woman beneath—the woman Daenerys loved more than anything, the woman who had fought with fire in her veins and steel in her hands.

"You scared me," Daenerys admitted, finally meeting Visenya’s gaze, her violet eyes shimmering with something raw, something unspoken. "I know you are strong, I know you are powerful, but—"

"But you feared I would lose myself," Visenya finished, her voice soft yet knowing. She lifted a hand, brushing damp strands of silver hair away from Daenerys’ face, her touch featherlight despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "You are the only one who could ever bring me back."

Daenerys closed her eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch before pressing a soft kiss against Visenya’s palm. "Always."

The tension between them melted away, replaced by something deep, something unshakable. The dragons nestled close, their presence a warmth that anchored them both. Daenerys continued her ministrations, ensuring Visenya was clean, cared for, whole. And for the first time since the battle had ended, Visenya allowed herself to let go.

To rest, knowing she was safe in Daenerys’ arms.

Chapter 8: VIII

Summary:

Qarth, the Battle of Oxcross and the House of the Undying

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

VIII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the endless blue expanse of the Summer Sea. The light danced over the gentle waves, turning the water to molten gold, as the ship rocked with a slow, rhythmic sway. The sails billowed softly in the breeze, taut with wind, while the creaking of timber and the groan of ropes filled the air, blending with the distant cries of seabirds soaring above. The salty tang of the sea clung to everything, a scent now familiar and oddly comforting.

After nearly a week of sailing, the distant silhouette of Qarth finally emerged on the horizon, rising from the desert like a vision out of myth. Even from afar, the famed triple walls of the city could be seen—three concentric rings of gleaming stone, each higher and more ornate than the last. They shimmered under the sun’s glare like polished bronze, surrounding the city in an impenetrable embrace. Beyond those walls, the arid desert stretched endlessly, a vast, golden expanse that made the oasis-like splendor of Qarth stand in stark, almost dreamlike contrast.

Visenya stood at the bow, her fingers curled tight around the railing, her violet eyes fixed on the approaching city. Her silver hair fluttered in the wind, catching the sunlight and gleaming like starlight. She had spent most of the voyage in introspection, quiet and distant, the memory of the battle with the corsairs still etched into her thoughts. The magic within her—volatile, powerful, alive—had settled from a roar into a low, simmering thrum. It pulsed beneath her skin like a heartbeat, always present, always waiting to be called upon.

Daenerys appeared beside her, silent at first, her own gaze on the shimmering spires ahead. She leaned slightly into her twin, her shoulder brushing Visenya’s, the touch grounding, a silent message of unity and care. Since the storm and the battle, Daenerys had become even more attentive, watching her twin with quiet protectiveness, always ensuring she ate, slept, rested. Always ensuring she wasn’t alone.

Behind them, Jorah ascended the steps to the forecastle, his eyes cautious, respectful of the bond between the sisters and the space the crew afforded them. "We should arrive before midday," he said, his voice steady but measured. "Qarth is not known for its hospitality. Its rulers are proud, their customs layered and complex. We’ll need to tread carefully if we’re to be granted passage."

Daenerys nodded slowly, her expression unreadable but her posture resolute. "Then we will do what we must."

Visenya turned her head slightly, studying her sister’s profile as the breeze tugged at their cloaks. Daenerys’ features were calm, composed, but Visenya knew her twin too well. She could see the calculations happening behind those eyes, the quiet determination. They had no banners, no armies, no noble lords to sing their names. Not yet. But they had each other—and they had dragons.

And dragons, Visenya thought, changed everything.

Their exile had begun as survival. A flight from those who would use or destroy them. But as the shimmering gates of Qarth drew ever closer, rising like a mirage in the heat haze, something new took root in Visenya’s heart.

Hope.

Not the fleeting hope of survival, but the solid, burning hope of purpose.

This was no longer just about enduring the world’s cruelties.

This was the beginning of something more.

The sun blazed high over the gleaming walls of Qarth, turning the pale stone to gold as the ship finally docked at one of the city's ornate harbors. Bright silks danced like flames in the wind, strung from tall masts and merchant stalls, while the scent of spices, sea salt, incense, and strange perfumes drifted thick through the air. Visenya and Daenerys disembarked together, their movements fluid and composed, Jorah close behind them. Their dragons remained tucked away beneath their cloaks, nestled inside specially lined satchels, their small bodies shifting occasionally with quiet chirps muffled by the fabric.

Qarth's grandeur towered around them, each building more beautiful and imposing than the last. The architecture was a fusion of art and engineering—pale marble and colored glass shimmered in the heat, golden statues stood atop high balconies and colonnades, their faces carved with expressions that seemed to change with the light. Some looked down as if in welcome; others with watchful warning. The streets bustled with robed merchants and finely dressed nobles, their skin powdered or painted, their fingers heavy with rings. Languages from all over the known world intermingled, forming a chorus of noise that pressed in from every direction.

They passed through the harborside markets with only brief glances. Despite the allure of silk and song, they kept their heads low and their strides purposeful. Too many eyes lingered, curious, calculating. Some looked upon the twins with awe, others with suspicion. Qarth was a city of wealth, but also of politics and predators. Jorah led them onward through winding stone streets, avoiding main avenues when he could. Eventually, they came upon a modest but respectable inn pressed up against one of the city’s inner walls, partially shaded by the wide fronds of old palm trees and crowned by a mosaic-tiled dome glinting in the last light of day.

The innkeeper, a lean woman with sun-creased skin and guarded eyes, accepted their coin without question, though her gaze lingered a moment too long on the bulges under their cloaks.

The twins claimed a small but comfortable room, just large enough for a bed and table, with a carved window that let in the breeze and the scent of nearby flowering trees. Jorah settled into the room beside them. Once alone, Visenya and Daenerys carefully released the dragons. The creatures stretched their wings and blinked sleepily, crawling onto the bed and up their mothers’ arms. Sylveris perched on Visenya’s shoulder, rubbing her snout against her neck, while Drakarion and Vaelyx climbed over Daenerys, and Aenryx nestled between them, tail flicking contentedly.

As the sun dipped below the skyline and Qarth transformed into a city of lanterns and firelight, the sisters sat on the bed with a worn map between them, fingers tracing routes, murmuring softly to one another. Their journey to this place had been long, fraught with danger and uncertainty. But now that they had reached Qarth, the real challenge lay ahead.

They had dragons. They had magic. But they had no army, no fleet, and no certainty of who they could trust.

The knock came shortly after sunset.

Jorah, ever watchful, was on his feet in an instant, hand on the hilt of his sword. He cracked the door open, exchanging low words with someone outside, before glancing back and giving a short nod.

Three individuals stepped through the doorway, each one more striking than the last.

The first was a tall, dark-skinned man whose presence seemed to fill the room. He wore flowing robes of sapphire and gold, the fabric rich enough to feed a small village for a year. Every finger bore a ring—some with gems, some with sigils. A golden torque gleamed around his neck. He smiled with perfect teeth and bowed with theatrical grace. "I am Xaro Xhoan Daxos of the Thirteen, merchant prince of Qarth, and I bid you welcome."

Behind him moved a tall, rail-thin man, his skin as pale as milk and his lips an unsettling shade of blue. His robe was the color of bruised twilight, and his eyes glinted with cold interest. "Pyat Pree," he said, his voice whispery and brittle. "Of the House of the Undying."

Last came a woman cloaked in shadow, her body hidden beneath shimmering black silk. Her face was obscured by a red lacquer mask with delicate whorls of silver etched into it, and her gloved hands were folded before her. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, yet carried weight. "I am Quaithe. Of Asshai."

The moment the strangers entered, the dragons reacted. All four lifted their heads, growling low in their throats, the scales on their backs twitching, eyes glinting with wariness. Sylveris hissed, wings half-flaring in warning.

"You are far from home," Pyat Pree murmured, eyes locked on the dragons with something between reverence and hunger. "And the winds of magic follow you."

Visenya stepped instinctively in front of Daenerys, her eyes narrowing. She could feel the subtle pressure of magic in the room now—cold and unnatural, completely unlike the fire she carried inside. These three were not simple emissaries. They were powerful, and dangerous.

Xaro held up a hand, palm open. "We mean no offense or intrusion. We merely wish to speak. To offer opportunity."

Quaithe's masked face turned toward Daenerys. "The path ahead is shrouded in shadow and flame. If you are to survive it, you must understand the shape of the storm to come."

The sisters exchanged a glance. They had seen enough to know this was no mere visit of pleasantries. These three had come with purpose. And whatever that purpose was, it would change everything.

Qarth had opened its gates. But what waited inside was not sanctuary.

It was prophecy.

And fire.

Xaro stepped forward again, his tone softening into one of honeyed hospitality. "It is unbecoming for such remarkable guests to remain in so humble a lodging. I offer you my home—the Palace of Dust and Stars. A place of safety, comfort, and splendor worthy of dragonborn sisters. You will want for nothing under my roof."

Daenerys and Visenya shared another look. The dragons, though still wary, had lowered their heads and watched with glittering eyes.

"And," Xaro continued, spreading his arms, "you are invited to a gathering of the Pureborn. A rare event. They are the ones who claim descent from the ancient kings of Qarth. Powerful, proud, and easily impressed by beauty and spectacle. I believe it would serve you well to be seen. To be known."

His smile remained perfectly polished, but beneath the charm lay something else—calculation.

Visenya tilted her head. "And what do you gain from all this, Xaro Xhoan Daxos?"

He did not flinch. "Only the favor of history in the making."

A long silence stretched. Then Daenerys nodded slowly.

"We will consider your offer," she said, her voice like silk over steel.

Xaro bowed deeply. "Then I shall await your arrival."

As the three visitors departed, the room fell into stillness once more. The dragons coiled around their mothers, eyes never leaving the door.

And outside, Qarth glittered with promise and danger alike.

The door had barely clicked shut behind the departing figures before silence settled over the room like a shroud. The dragons remained alert, their glittering eyes fixed on the entrance, but their growls had faded to soft, questioning chirps. Sylveris nestled closer to Visenya, while Drakarion bumped his snout gently against Daenerys's knee.

Visenya paced the length of the small room, arms folded tightly across her chest, while Daenerys sat on the edge of the bed, absently stroking Drakarion's scales.

"It could be a trap," Visenya said, voice low and tense. "A palace we cannot leave. A gathering of those who might see us as entertainment, or worse."

Daenerys looked up at her sister, calm despite the uncertainty. "And yet if we stay here, we remain shadows. Unknown, unconsidered. We have dragons, Visenya. Power. But no one will follow power they do not see."

Visenya halted her pacing, turning to face Daenerys. "That warlock—Pyat Pree. I didn’t like the way he looked at you. Or them." She nodded toward the dragons.

"Nor did I," Daenerys admitted. "But Xaro's offer gives us access to the Pureborn. If we're to understand the politics of this city, if we're to build anything real here, we must know who holds the reins."

Visenya hesitated, her gaze falling to Sylveris curled in her lap. The snowy dragon blinked up at her, amber eyes calm and sure. A quiet hum of magic still pulsed in her veins, echoing the lingering tension in the room.

"We’ll go," Visenya said finally. "But on our terms. We stay alert, we watch every move, and we do not let them separate us."

Daenerys stood and reached for her sister’s hand, threading their fingers together. "Always."

The dragons gave a collective rumble of agreement, and in the flickering candlelight of the inn room, the sisters prepared themselves for the next step. Qarth’s court awaited—and they would meet it not as beggars, but as dragonborn daughters of fire and blood.

~~

The palace of Xaro Xhoan Daxos was unlike anything the twins had ever seen. Tall doors of carved jade opened into marble corridors veined with silver and gold. The wing granted to them was a cascade of opulence—spacious rooms with silk-draped windows, carved furniture inlaid with gems, and private terraces that overlooked the glittering sprawl of Qarth. Jorah had his own chambers nearby, while the sisters and their dragons made a shared space into a sanctuary of their own.

Their dragons took quickly to the luxury. Sylveris often curled along the curved edge of a balcony, gazing down at the city with amber eyes, while Drakarion chased flares of sunlight across the tiles. Aenryx and Vaelyx perched on silk cushions or sprawled across the cool marble floors, all four dragons growing by the day.

Several days passed before the invitation came: a gathering of the Thirteen and Pureborn in one of Xaro’s private gardens, held in honor of the dragon twins.

Visenya had been tense all day. Despite the luxury, the wealth, the silken gowns, she trusted none of it. But she allowed Daenerys to fasten the delicate gold clasps of her Qartheen gown, fingers trailing across her skin with fondness. The gown, like Daenerys’s, was sheer and flowing, ornamented with embroidered dragons and fire motifs in scarlet and silver. The effect was stunning.

When they stepped into the garden, the chatter of courtiers and merchants slowed. Murmured titles passed from lip to lip—"Stormborn," "Dragonspawn," "Twin Queens."

They remained close, almost unconsciously so, their bodies always leaning toward one another, fingers brushing, hips aligned. The boundaries of personal space between them had long since dissolved, and now they moved as two halves of one flame. Daenerys’s hand often rested at the small of Visenya’s back, and Visenya’s arm would snake lightly around Daenerys’s waist, fingers curling possessively into the silk. Sometimes they would pause mid-step just to adjust each other’s hair or tug the folds of their gowns back into place, their touches gentle, loving, and habitual.

The affection between them wasn’t showy, but it was constant—an almost magnetic pull. If one shifted slightly, the other followed without thought. Every shared look carried layers of unspoken history and understanding, a tether that kept them grounded in a world that had done its best to unmoor them. Strangers might see them as one, and in many ways, they were: flame and breath, storm and sky, two dragons with a single soul.

The garden itself was a marvel. Lamps hung from flowering trees, casting golden light on silk carpets, cushioned divans, and tables laden with fruits, spiced meats, and wines from all corners of Essos. Exotic scents and soft music drifted through the air.

Xaro greeted them as if he were presenting royalty. His smile was grand, his flattery endless. "My guests of honor," he said, arms wide, "the blood of old Valyria, the daughters of fire."

It was at this gathering, surrounded by opulence and honeyed lies, that they heard the news. A merchant from Lys, eager to impress, spoke of the storm brewing in Westeros—of King Robert’s death, of the war between his brothers and the boy-king, of the Northern uprising.

Daenerys stilled, her fingers tightening around her goblet, her free hand instinctively finding Visenya’s again.

Visenya’s jaw clenched as she looked at her sister. "They’re tearing themselves apart."

"And they’ve forgotten us," Daenerys whispered.

Visenya leaned in close, their foreheads nearly touching, her voice low but steady. "We don’t need to be remembered. We need to be ready."

The fire had never left them—but now it had focus.

Even without desire for a crown, the chance to avenge their family—to take what was stolen—was no longer a distant dream. But they would need an army. And coin. Much of both.

And they would find a way.

The garden glittered on around them, but the sisters stood in the center of it all, not as decorations, but as dragons preparing to take flight. Always touching, always grounded in each other. A pair whose bond defied the passage of time and fire, unshaken by exile, and now tempered in resolve.

As the warm, fragrant air of the garden stirred with the soft rustle of silk and murmuring voices, the crowd parted once more. A chill seemed to follow in its wake as a figure moved forward, his pale blue lips curved into an unsettling smile.

Pyat Pree.

He bowed low before the twins, arms spread wide, his deep voice low and rasping like the whisper of a cold wind. "Most honored daughters of the dragon. The House of the Undying bids you welcome."

Visenya’s fingers brushed lightly along Daenerys’s spine in a silent warning, her other hand resting near the hilt of Dark Sister, even in this setting of peace. Daenerys offered a polite nod, though her posture stiffened at the warlock’s presence.

"You honor us with your presence," Daenerys said coolly. "We have heard much of your order."

"And we have long waited for your return," Pyat Pree said, voice like silk stretched taut. "The blood of Valyria returns to the world, and magic stirs with your breath. We would offer you a gift."

He reached into the voluminous sleeves of his robes and drew forth a small gemstone. Its surface shimmered with hues that seemed to shift with each blink—sapphire, violet, and a deep red that echoed dragonfire.

With a strange, reverent smile, he extended the gem toward Daenerys. "Look into it, Princess. Let it show you what has been, what is, and what may yet come."

Visenya’s hand tightened at Daenerys’s side, but her twin gently touched her wrist—a silent reassurance. "It’s alright," Daenerys murmured, curiosity glinting in her eyes. She reached out and took the stone, the cool weight settling in her palm.

The moment her fingers closed around it, her breath caught. The world seemed to fall away around her.

Visenya watched closely, her heart pounding as Daenerys’s eyes glazed over, caught in the pull of whatever enchantment the warlock had woven. The dragons, curled nearby, shifted restlessly, sensing the magic in the air.

For a few long heartbeats, everything was still. Then Daenerys blinked, gasped, and looked to Visenya.

"I saw... fire. A throne... shadows moving. You were there," she said, voice trembling. "And something... cold. Watching."

Pyat Pree bowed again, his face unreadable. "The House of the Undying sees many paths. You may walk one, or all. We invite you to see them for yourself."

He straightened, his eyes glittering like the gem still nestled in Daenerys’s hand.

"Come to us, daughters of fire. Come, and see."

Then he turned, robes whispering across the floor as he vanished into the crowd as silently as he had appeared.

Visenya slipped her arm more tightly around Daenerys’s waist. Neither said a word—but in the depths of their eyes, questions bloomed like fire in dry grass.

As the garden’s celebration slowly drew to a close, Xaro Xhoan Daxos escorted the dragon twins through the ornate halls of his palace. The soft slap of their slippers on marble floors echoed between walls lined with rare tapestries and carved stone reliefs from every corner of Essos. Golden lanterns flickered overhead, casting long shadows as twilight crept in.

Daenerys and Visenya walked side by side, as ever touching—hips brushing, shoulders leaning. Visenya’s fingers lazily twined with Daenerys’s, both of them serene in the moment but still alert beneath the surface.

Xaro walked just ahead, clasping his hands behind his back, his tone light and pleasant. "It pleases me greatly to host you here. You bring a fire Qarth has not felt in centuries."

"You bring many eyes as well," Visenya replied, her voice like tempered steel wrapped in silk.

Xaro chuckled. "What is power, if not the gathering of eyes?"

They passed a massive mosaic depicting the founding of Qarth, glass tiles glinting in the light. As they paused to admire it, Xaro turned to face them, his expression softening.

"You’ve heard of the wars tearing your homeland apart. The false kings squabbling over cinders. You two are dragons. True heirs."

Visenya’s gaze sharpened. "We’ve no love for the Iron Throne. It was taken from our family by blood and fire. But if the realm tears itself apart, and a chance rises to avenge our kin—"

"We will take it," Daenerys finished for her, her voice quiet, but firm.

Xaro stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Then you will need ships. Soldiers. Gold. Much of it. I can give you that. I can help you raise a fleet the likes of which Westeros has not seen since the days of Old Valyria."

Visenya’s brows furrowed. "Why would you give so much for a cause that is not your own?"

The merchant smiled, spreading his hands. "Because power must ally with power. Influence with beauty. And you—both of you—have that in abundance."

There was a pause. Then he added, more softly, "I would offer my hand in marriage. To one of you. As husband to a dragon queen, I would give everything I have."

Daenerys's fingers tightened where they rested in Visenya’s hand. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken thoughts. Visenya tilted her head, a faint smile touching her lips though her eyes remained unreadable.

"A generous offer," she said slowly. "And one we will consider."

"But we make decisions together," Daenerys added, her voice even but cool. "And we are not easily bought."

Xaro bowed his head respectfully, though his eyes gleamed with ambition. "Of course. Think on it, queens of flame. My door is always open."

As they continued down the hall, Visenya leaned toward Daenerys, lips brushing the curve of her ear.

"We’ll find our own way, mandia," she whispered. "One not bought in coin or chains."

Daenerys leaned into her gently, her voice a murmur. "Let him play his games. We know what we’re worth."

They walked on, side by side, cloaked in starlight and firelight, already plotting their path forward.

~~

The lanternlight flickered warmly across the polished stone walls of their private bathing chamber, a serene space tucked deep within Xaro’s palace. Steam curled in the air, perfumed by the petals scattered across the surface of the sunken pool—hibiscus, rose, and pale violet blossoms that floated like fragments of a dream. The water, warmed from beneath by hidden pipes, shimmered with golden hues.

Visenya and Daenerys entered without a word, their movements practiced and comfortable. They shed the elegant Qartheen dresses—silken things that fell like whispers to the floor—and stepped into the pool together, bare skin brushing as they sank into the water. No shyness. No shame. They moved as though each knew the rhythm of the other’s breath, two parts of the same soul housed in mirrored bodies.

The heat wrapped around them like an embrace, soothing away the weight of the night’s intrigues and veiled threats. Daenerys leaned against the smooth edge of the bath, her eyes half-lidded in tired thought. Visenya slid beside her, a hand gently brushing away a strand of silver hair from Daenerys’s cheek, her touch reverent, worshipful.

"You were brilliant tonight," Visenya murmured, voice soft and low, tinged with something deeper—affection, longing.

Daenerys smiled faintly, her fingers trailing beneath the surface to rest over Visenya’s. "So were you. As always."

Their hands stayed together under the water, fingertips tangling. Visenya drew a sponge across Daenerys’s shoulder, slow and tender, the motion an excuse to touch, to linger. Daenerys did the same in turn, running the sponge across the curve of Visenya’s back, tracing old scars and new tension with equal reverence. Every movement felt sacred.

Their touches were not rushed, nor strictly practical—they lingered, savoring the closeness, the affirmation. The dragons, curled up just outside the chamber on warm stone, let out soft, sleepy trills, sensing the stillness in their mothers.

"I don’t know where we’ll go next," Daenerys whispered.

"It doesn’t matter," Visenya replied, tilting her forehead to rest against Daenerys’s. "Wherever you go, I’ll follow. There is no world without you in it."

Daenerys’s breath caught. Her hand found Visenya’s beneath the water and held it tightly. She stared into her sister’s eyes, the violet gaze that matched her own, and something ached in her chest—something tender, something hungry. The feelings she had tried to silence for so long trembled to the surface. She didn’t speak them aloud. Not yet.

Visenya, ever attuned to Daenerys, saw it in her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, their foreheads pressed tighter, noses brushing. Her lips hovered just a breath away, but she held herself still, offering comfort without pressure, affection without demand.

In the quiet of the bath, wrapped in warmth and silence, no walls remained between them. No fear, no doubt—only the bond forged in fire, loss, and shared breath. And beneath it all, the slow-burning fire of desire, held in the tender curve of a smile, the lingering stroke of fingers, the soft flutter of breath.

They stayed like that until the water began to cool, unwilling to part, even as night deepened and the lanterns burned low, casting soft shadows on the water and the two figures nestled close—twin souls, joined by more than blood.

The silken sheets of their bed rustled softly as Daenerys and Visenya climbed beneath them, their skin still warm and dewy from their shared bath. Candlelight flickered gently against the gilded walls of their private chamber in Xaro's palace, painting them in shades of firelight and shadow. They curled into each other with instinctive ease, limbs tangling without thought, like two halves that had always belonged to one whole.

Their dragons, now the size of small hounds, had claimed their spots at the foot of the bed. Sylveris nestled against Visenya’s legs, her snowy hide dappled with pale shadow and the faintest shimmer, while Drakarion rested possessively over Daenerys’s calves. Aenryx and Vaelyx formed a knot of wings and tails between them, their chests rising and falling in sleepy rhythm, like flickering coals banked for warmth.

Visenya’s fingers traced the elegant curve of Daenerys’s spine with reverent tenderness, her touch equal parts possessive and comforting. She pressed a lingering kiss to her twin's temple, breathing in the soft floral scent left by their oils, and feeling the way Daenerys melted against her, their hearts syncing into a quiet symphony.

"He wants one of us to marry him," Daenerys whispered, voice barely audible, her breath ghosting across Visenya’s throat.

Visenya stiffened slightly. Her hand stilled against Daenerys’s back. "He wants you to marry him," she said, low and rough. "He only ever looks at you."

Daenerys tilted her head up, brushing her lips lightly against the hollow of Visenya’s collarbone, so soft it could have been a sigh. "And if I did?"

A growl built in Visenya's chest, quiet and deep. Her arm tightened around Daenerys’s waist, anchoring her close, her grip firm and unyielding. The dragon in her stirred with possessive fury.

"No," she said, barely more than a snarl. "You’re mine. Let him promise all the gold, all the ships, all the power he wants—he cannot have you."

Daenerys’s breath caught, her fingers curling against Visenya’s ribs. She tucked her face against her sister’s neck, where her heartbeat thudded hot and fast. "And if I only ever wanted to marry you?"

Visenya froze. Her hand lifted slowly, trembling slightly, to cup Daenerys’s cheek, her thumb brushing along her twin’s jawline with the gentlest of reverence. Their eyes met, and time held its breath.

Daenerys swallowed, voice rough and vulnerable. "You are the only one I’ve ever wanted."

The space between them buzzed with tension, longing, and an aching need neither dared yet to name. Their foreheads met, their noses brushed, their eyes held the weight of unspoken promises. Each breath shared between them felt heavier, fuller, charged with the hunger of years spent keeping their feelings quiet beneath the surface.

Around them, the dragons shifted and murmured, sensing the charged energy in the air but never breaking the moment. They were like guardians, protectors of this sacred, growing bond.

Daenerys let out a soft sigh, her fingers running lightly through Visenya's hair, the strands silky and warm against her skin. "You feel like the other half of me. I’ve never needed anyone but you."

Visenya closed her eyes, her voice a whisper. "You are my heart, Dany. You always have been."

The candlelight danced low, shadows climbing higher along the walls as the night grew deeper. The two of them lay there, skin to skin, heart to heart, claiming no distance, no hesitation. Just the warmth of two souls twined impossibly close, anchored in one another and held together by fire, fate, and something far deeper—something neither of them would ever let go.

~~

The night was heavy with silence, the kind that clung to the skin and filled the lungs like the breath before a storm. The dense woods around Lyarra held their breath with her, the branches of ancient trees creaking ever so slightly under the weight of moonlight and tension. Every leaf, every blade of grass seemed to listen. Moonlight filtered weakly through the canopy, casting pale, shifting streaks across her blackened armor and the hardened leather of her brigidine. The Stark direwolf crest at her shoulder was dulled by soot and dirt. Ghost, her constant companion, as pale as fresh snowfall, moved like smoke behind her, his crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation.

Her cavalry, nearly two hundred riders, waited in absolute stillness within the shadow of the trees. The horses, though trained and disciplined, shifted and stamped in quiet impatience, steam curling from their nostrils. The tension in the air was palpable. Down below, nestled in the clearing and surrounded by gently sloping ridges, the Lannister camp flickered with lazy firelight. Rows upon rows of tents sprawled out, sentries slouching at posts, their boredom evident. The scent of unwashed bodies, sweat-soaked wool, damp canvas, and faint steel drifted up the hillside.

Lyarra watched them with the cold detachment of a predator. She could hear the clatter of dice, the muted laughter of conscripts around a cookfire, the rattle of chains and weapons left too far from reach. These men were green, conscripts and replacements for Jaime Lannister's army lost outside Riverrun. They were not ready.

But safety was a lie. And tonight, she would carve that truth into their bones.

From the far side of the camp, distant horns split the night air. The signal.

Robb’s vanguard had struck.

Confusion erupted in a matter of heartbeats. Screams rang out. Metal clanged against metal. The once-languid camp burst into disarray as men stumbled from tents, some half-dressed, others already cut down. Fires spread quickly as overturned braziers set tents alight, casting the battlefield in a hellish orange glow.

Lyarra’s fingers flexed around the grip of her bastard sword, the leather wrapping worn and familiar. The blade, forged for power and reach, already bore the stains of countless kills.

"Now!" she roared, her voice sharp as iron.

The Northern cavalry exploded from the tree line, their war cries filling the night with fury. The sound of hooves thundering across the ground joined the screams, the clash of steel, the groans of the dying. Lyarra led the charge, her hair streaming behind her like a banner of shadow. Ghost bounded at her side.

They hit the Lannister flank with the force of a hammer striking glass.

Tent flaps burst open only to reveal startled boys barely older than squires, still fumbling for weapons as steel sliced into them. Some tried to flee, but the wall of charging horses was too swift. Others fell with barely a cry, cut down before they could comprehend the attack. Panic spread like wildfire.

Lyarra plunged into the fray, her sword flashing as it hacked through a man's collarbone and into his chest. Blood splattered across her brigidine as another came at her with a spear. She twisted in the saddle, parrying the thrust and opening his throat in a single, practiced motion. A third tried to grab her reins—Ghost took him down in a blur of white and red, snarling as he tore out the man’s throat.

The cries of the dying mingled with the crackle of flames. Tents became funeral pyres. Horses screamed, men begged, the world drowned in steel and fire.

She guided her mount toward a knot of resistance forming near the command tent. Her horse reared, hooves striking out, as she drove her sword down through the shoulder of a Lannister officer attempting to rally the remnants. He screamed as he fell, blood pouring from the wound. Lyarra yanked the blade free, flicking crimson droplets across the ground.

The battle became a blur of violence. Her arms ached, her breath came in ragged bursts, but she did not slow. Around her, Northern riders continued the slaughter. Fires consumed the southern end of the camp. The air grew thick with smoke, heat, and the coppery tang of blood.

And still, she pressed forward.

Her eyes locked onto another cluster of red and gold banners. She was soaked with blood, her blade slick, her muscles burning. But she was a Stark. And she would not stop.

Not until the field belonged to the North.

~

Dawn broke over the battlefield of Oxcross like a slow exhale, casting long shadows across the ruined Lannister camp. Smoke still curled upward from dying fires and smoldering tents, mixing with the morning mist to give the field a ghostly, unreal quality. The sun’s first light revealed the full scale of the devastation—the surprise night assault had shattered the Lannister forces.

Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls in the mud, their red and gold cloaks soaked dark with blood. The earth was torn and churned by hooves, boots, and the chaos of war. Northern banners flapped gently in the breeze over hastily erected field posts, marking their hard-won victory.

Lyarra Stark walked slowly beside her half-brother, Robb, their direwolves padding behind them—Ghost silent and watchful at her side, Grey Wind walking alertly next to Robb. Neither wolf needed commands. The smell of blood was enough to put them on edge.

Around them, the living moved among the dead. Northern soldiers gathered weapons, tended wounds, or offered prayers. Many looted the fallen—Lannister dead stripped of anything useful or valuable. Boots were pulled from still-warm corpses, rings and necklaces pried from stiff fingers, coin purses cut away and counted. Some soldiers worked methodically, others greedily, taking everything from intact armor to tent canvas. The battlefield was a grim harvest, and nothing was left to waste.

The Silent Sisters, wrapped in their grey robes, moved in solemn silence, covering faces and preparing bodies for burial. Among them worked healers and camp followers, tending to those who still clung to life.

Lyarra’s jaw was tight, her black brigidine stained with gore and soot. Her sword was sheathed now, but her hands still bore the imprint of battle, raw and aching.

They came to a group of wounded, gathered near a low-burning fire. A makeshift tent had been erected, under which lay a young Lannister soldier, barely older than a boy. His face was pale, streaked with tears and sweat, and his foot was a ruin of shredded flesh and splintered bone.

A woman knelt beside him—not a Silent Sister, but a healer, her sleeves rolled up and blood already darkening her apron. She had a knife in hand, and a bowl of boiling water beside her. The boy whimpered and thrashed weakly, shaking his head.

"I won't... I won’t be a cripple," he sobbed. "Please, not that. Don’t."

The healer’s face was grim. "You’ll die if I don’t. There’s no saving the foot."

Robb stepped forward without a word, kneeling beside the boy. He met the healer’s eyes with a quiet nod, then turned to the soldier. "I need you to be brave now," he said, voice steady, kind. "You fought well. You survived the worst of it. But if you want to keep surviving, you have to let her do this."

Lyarra stayed a few steps back, eyes sweeping the field beyond them. She stood with her hand on her sword hilt, scanning the horizon. The war might have passed from this field for now, but that didn’t mean danger was done. The habit of vigilance was burned into her bones. She heard the boy’s sobs, the soothing murmur of Robb’s voice, the wet crunch of steel as the healer went to work, but she didn’t turn around.

Ghost stayed beside her, unmoving, a sentinel in pale fur and red eyes.

When it was over, Robb rose with blood on his hands and a tightness in his face. Lyarra finally looked his way and nodded once, then returned her gaze to the battlefield. The crows had already started to gather.

Another victory. Another step deeper into the war.

And still, she wondered: How much more would they have to give before it ended?

~~

The sun slanted low through the intricately carved windows of the palace chamber, bathing the room in golden light. The air was rich with the scent of incense and citrus, the murmur of Qarth's distant marketplace a dull hum beneath the silence that filled the twins' room. Visenya lay sprawled on the embroidered cushions, her silver hair gleaming like spun starlight in the waning afternoon sun. Daenerys sat nearby, cross-legged with her lap full of warm, squirming dragon.

Their four dragons had grown in the weeks since they arrived in Qarth. No longer the size of cats, they were now more akin to small dogs or large hounds in weight and playfulness. Despite their increasing size and sharpness of claw, they still behaved like affectionate pups, crawling into their mothers’ laps and wrapping themselves around their limbs with demanding chirps and purring rumbles. Drakarion, ever possessive, perched proudly across Daenerys's shoulders like a living mantle, while Sylveris nestled herself against Visenya's chest, her soft, snowy-white body rising and falling with each of her bonded's breaths. Aenryx was curled between them, her tail occasionally flicking across Daenerys's arm, while Vaelyx kept attempting to leap between cushions and knock over a half-finished plate of pomegranate seeds.

Daenerys giggled as she scooped Vaelyx up again, pressing a kiss to his snout as he chirped indignantly. "You are incorrigible," she murmured, cuddling the young dragon close to her chest before he squirmed away again, diving back toward Visenya’s lap.

"He gets it from you," Visenya teased gently, brushing a lock of hair away from Daenerys’s cheek with the back of her hand, her touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Daenerys smiled softly, her gaze fond. "Then you’ve no excuse for loving him so much."

Their laughter faded into a gentle stillness as their dragons finally settled, their warm bodies curled around them in a tangle of limbs and flickering tails. It was a moment of peace, hard-won and fleeting in a world that offered them so few.

"Jorah was right," Visenya said at last, her voice low and thoughtful. She stroked Sylveris’s sleek scales absentmindedly, her other hand resting lightly over Daenerys's knee. "There’s no support to be found in Qarth. Only merchants who play at politics and smile with knives behind their teeth."

Daenerys exhaled slowly, her fingers carding through Aenryx’s gold-edged scales. "They see us as children, or worse—as weapons. Pretty things to put on display or barter with."

"Or marry," Visenya muttered, her eyes narrowing. Her tone held no small amount of venom, the memory of Xaro’s proposal still fresh and foul on her tongue.

Daenerys leaned closer, resting her head against Visenya’s shoulder. "He sees what we could be. But not who we are."

"Then he sees nothing," Visenya murmured, tilting her head to rest it lightly atop her twin's. "We’re not pawns. We’re fire. Blood. We’ll find another way."

"Westeros," Daenerys whispered.

Visenya nodded. "If we are to take back what was stolen, it must be from within. We can’t be strangers returning from across the sea, demanding loyalty. We need allies in the kingdoms. People who remember our house—not just the fear, but the hope."

Daenerys was quiet a moment before she whispered, "Do you think they’ll remember anything but the fire?"

Visenya tightened her arm around her sister, her voice fierce. "Then we’ll give them something else to remember. Not just dragons. But queens who protect their own. Who burn only when there’s no other choice."

Their dragons shifted and curled tighter around them, sensing the warmth of conviction in their mothers’ voices. For a moment, the room felt less like an opulent prison and more like the heart of something powerful—something just beginning to awaken.

Daenerys lifted her head, their eyes locking, silver and starlight meeting. "Together?"

Visenya smiled. "Always."

And in that quiet moment, surrounded by scales and firelight, they knew: they would not be denied.

~~

The invitation arrived in the pale light of dawn, sealed with sigils Daenerys and Visenya did not recognize but instantly understood the meaning of. The House of the Undying had summoned them. While Jorah continued the search for a ship unaffiliated with Xaro Xhoan Daxos or the Thirteen, the offer of knowledge—perhaps even prophecy or glimpses of futures yet to unfold—was a lure neither twin could ignore.

They spoke of it in hushed tones for some time, weighing danger against possibility. It was Visenya who gave voice to the decision. "We’ve come this far chasing shadows of truth and the safety to shape our path. If the warlocks offer visions, then let us arm ourselves with knowing what may come."

Daenerys, seated beside her twin and watching the dragons crawl over the silken cushions of their chamber, nodded. Her voice was soft but certain. "We’ll go. But we go together."

The House of the Undying stood alone, far from Qarth’s opulent walls and vivid markets, hidden in a grove of trees black of bark and crowned in inky blue leaves. The leaves shimmered with secrets, heavy with the raw stuff of shade of the evening. No other buildings dared stand near the cursed place. The structure itself was old beyond time—long and serpentine, coiling like some great beast turned to stone, without towers or windows. The roof was blanketed in shattered black tiles, the mortar between the time-worn stones cracked and dry. The palace radiated a sense of stillness that felt more like death than silence. Even the dragons writhed uneasily beneath the twins' cloaks, pressing close to their mothers, disturbed by what lay ahead.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos accompanied them to the grove's edge but halted as they neared the crooked path. His gaze swept over the place with disdain and unease. "This is madness," he murmured. "You need not go into that ruin. Whatever truths it hides are not worth your souls."

"Perhaps," Visenya replied, her voice quiet and resolute, "but we are dragons. We do not fear the dark."

Her violet eyes met Daenerys’s—identical flames from the same fire, unblinking and fierce—and together, they stepped forward.

At the edge of the grove, beneath the twisted black trees, waited Pyat Pree, robed in shimmering indigo. The warlock looked gaunt, his lips already stained blue. He bowed deeply. "The front door leads in," he said, voice papery and hollow, "but never out again. Heed my words, my queens. The House of the Undying was not made for mortal flesh. If you value your souls, do just as I say."

Daenerys inclined her head, listening. "I will."

"When you enter, you’ll find yourself in a room with four doors—the one you entered, and three others. Always take the door to your right. Each time, always right. Should you find stairs, climb. Never descend. Do not take any door but the first to your right."

"Right, always right," Daenerys repeated. "And when we leave, we go left?"

"No," Pyat Pree said sharply. "Coming and going are the same. Always up, always right. Other doors may open to you. You will see things—visions of beauty and horror, truths and lies, pasts, futures, and things that never were. Servants may speak. You may answer, or not. But enter no room until you reach the chamber of the Undying."

"I understand," Daenerys said again. Visenya merely nodded, her gaze scanning the trees, as if reading signs in their dark bark.

The path twisted longer than it seemed, the space between moments stretching thin. When they reached the door—tall and oval, set in a wall carved in the likeness of a human face—a servitor awaited them. A dwarf no taller than a child’s knee, dressed in delicate purple and blue livery, his snout-like face twisted into something almost apologetic. He carried a silver tray, and on it, two crystal flutes filled with thick blue liquid.

"Take and drink," Pyat Pree said.

Visenya eyed the glass with suspicion. "Will it turn our lips blue?"

"Only one flute, my queen," the warlock replied. "It will unstop your ears, pull the caul from your eyes, so you may see and hear what must be seen and heard."

The twins exchanged a glance before taking their flutes. The taste was foul—spoiled meat and ink—but the sensation that followed was electric. Fire licked through their chests, curling like serpents around their hearts. The drink tasted of everything and nothing—blood and gold, honey and anise, metal and magic. It burned, then sweetened, then left behind a lingering promise.

When the flutes were empty, they placed them back on the tray. Pyat Pree bowed.

"Now you may enter."

Their fingers brushed, and for a moment their hands lingered. And then, as one, the dragon twins stepped into the House of the Undying.

They found themselves in a stone anteroom with four doors, one on each wall. Without hesitation, Daenerys turned to the door on her right and stepped through. Visenya followed at her side, her gaze wary, shoulders tense beneath the weight of old instinct. The second room mirrored the first, cold and eerily quiet. Again, they turned to the right-hand door. When they pushed it open, they faced yet another small antechamber with four doors, identical and strange. The silence grew heavier. They shared a look—one of realization. They were not merely walking through stone rooms. They were inside something alive, something old. Sorcery breathed here, thicker than incense, heavier than time. It was not the magic Visenya wielded—that boiled golden fire in her veins—but something colder, whispering, ancient and drenched in illusion.

The fourth room broke the pattern. Oval instead of square, its walls were of worm-eaten wood in place of stone. Six narrow passages branched out instead of four. Dany, jaw set, chose the rightmost passage once more, and together they entered a long, dim, high-ceilinged corridor that swallowed the sound of their breath. The air clung thick and unnatural, and their dragons stirred uneasily. Drakarion unfolded wide black wings and launched forward, only to crash into the dust-choked gloom. Daenerys ran to him. Visenya stayed close behind, her hand never far from the hilt of Dark Sister.

On the right wall, torches burned low with a smoky orange glow, casting flickering shadows that danced like spirits. All the doors lined the left, looming and misshapen. The carpet beneath their feet had once been a masterpiece of regal design, a weave of gold and crimson now faded to mottled green and grey. It muffled their footsteps, but not the noise around them. Scratches and skittering sounds filled the walls, as if something clawed and crawled inside. Drakarion hissed at them, tail lashing. The other dragons mimicked him, their eyes sharp and wary.

A sudden thump from a nearby door made both twins flinch. It sounded like someone—or something—trapped inside, slamming to escape. Another door sent forth a piercing, discordant piping, so shrill it made Sylveris coil tightly around Visenya’s neck, her sleek white body trembling. Drakarion growled in his chest, wings half-unfurled. Visenya placed a calming hand on her dragon, but her eyes never left the door.

Some doors stood open.

They knew they shouldn’t look—but they did.

In one room, a woman lay sprawled naked on the floor, and four diminutive men with pink hands and rat-like faces crawled over her. One thrust between her legs. Another bit at her breasts, mouth red and wet. It was obscene, twisted, and wrong. Daenerys turned her face away. Visenya stepped faster.

They passed a grand feast, or what had once been one. Bodies littered the floor, slumped over chairs, tangled on tables, soaked in congealed blood. Severed limbs lay beside spilled wine, goblets gripped by dead hands. Above it all sat a dead man on a throne with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and clutched a leg of lamb as if it were a scepter. His vacant eyes followed them with silent appeal, and Daenerys felt a chill curl up her spine.

They fled into the next hallway, hearts thudding.

Another room gaped open—and Daenerys stopped.

Sunlight. A lemon tree. The red door.

She gasped. "I know this place."

Warmth bathed her skin, golden and real. She took a hesitant step into the familiar room. The beams above bore carved animal faces. And then—

"Little princesses, there you are," came a voice. Ser Willem, leaning on his stick, smiled at them with soft, wrinkled hands. "Come, my lady. You’re home now. You’re safe."

Daenerys's breath caught. She wanted to reach for him, to collapse into his arms, to believe. Just once. Her foot inched forward.

Visenya’s fingers gripped her arm like iron.

"He’s dead," Visenya said, voice raw. "Dead a long time. That’s not him. This isn’t real."

Daenerys blinked. The room dissolved into shadow.

The corridor returned—cold, dim, and endless. She nodded silently, her face pale, her eyes wide.

And so they kept walking.

The deeper they ventured, the heavier the air became. The further they stepped, the louder the silence rang. Ghosts and memories lingered behind every door, each one more tempting, more haunting. They did not speak, but they stayed close—shoulders brushing, hands briefly clasping when one stumbled. Behind them, their dragons crept quietly, low to the ground. Their instincts, too, sensed the weight of sorcery here. Their breath misted in the cool air.

The long hall stretched out before them, endless and strange. Visenya moved in step with Daenerys, her sword hand resting near Dark Sister as her eyes scanned the countless doors to their left. Sylveris clung to her shoulder, wings half-furled and claws gripping the fine fabric of her tunic with delicate care, while Vaelyx squirmed lightly in her arm, occasionally peeking over her elbow to hiss at the torchlit shadows. Daenerys walked close beside her, one arm wrapped around Aenryx, the pale and graceful dragon nestled against her chest like a living pearl. Drakarion, fiercely protective, rode her back, his tail wrapped possessively around her shoulder as he growled low at the silence.

The hall went on and on, door after door—some ornate with carvings of strange beasts, others plain and ancient, but all exuding the weight of secrets and memories long buried. No matter how far they walked, only doors to the left, only torches to the right. Daenerys began to move faster, urged forward by the restless Drakarion, until she was nearly running, the sound of her boots muffled by the faded, mold-eaten carpet. Visenya kept close, her eyes flickering with unease, the sensation of magic pressing closer to the surface of her skin with every step.

At last, grand bronze doors loomed to their left, tall and heavy. As they neared, they swung open with a groan like the cry of some ancient beast. Daenerys stopped, unable to look away. Visenya stood beside her, silent and still, her dragons watching with wide eyes.

Beyond the doors lay a vast hall of black stone, empty but for a throne of twisted barbs and the skulls of dragons looming from the walls. On the throne sat an old man, regal and sharp-eyed, cloaked in robes heavy with gold and red.

“Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat,” the old man said to someone unseen. “Let him be the king of ashes.”

Drakarion shrieked, his claws tearing into Daenerys’ shoulder, but the king did not react. He was not truly there. They moved on.

Another door opened of its own volition. Inside stood a man with the silver-gold hair of a Targaryen but taller than Viserys, his eyes a dark indigo. He stood beside a woman in a wooden bed, nursing a newborn.

“Rhaenyra,” he said with pride. “What better name for a queen?”

“Will you make a song for her?” the woman asked softly.

“She has a song,” he answered. “She is the prince that was promised, and hers is the song of ice and fire.”

His gaze lifted. It met Daenerys’s, as if through time itself.

“There must be one more. The dragon has three heads.”

He turned and took up a harp, and gentle music spilled into the air, silver and sorrowful. As the scene faded, only the song remained in the hallway, pushing them onward.

They walked what felt like another hour. Still only doors on their left. Still no end in sight. Then, a steep stone staircase appeared ahead, descending into darkness. Dany slowed. The torches were going out, one by one, snuffed as if by invisible hands. Fear rippled down Visenya’s spine as she reached for her magic, feeling the heat stir in her veins. But there was no door to the right. And the steps went down, not up.

Behind them, something moved.

Scraping. Dragging. Getting closer.

Visenya turned in time to see the shadows lunge. “Dany!” she shouted, reaching out.

Visenya gasped, her breath torn from her lungs as the darkness surged around her. It was like falling into the depths of an endless sea, the world warped and slow and wrong. One moment she had been beside Daenerys, her fingers brushing her sister's hand, and the next she was alone.

Darkness wrapped around her like cold silk. The world shifted, distorted like she was deep underwater. Her ears rang with a distant echo, her vision blurred. She tried to move, but her limbs were sluggish, weighed down as if she were bound in chains made of shadow. Her fingers twitched and her breath caught—she was bound. Not by rope or manacle, but by magic, thick and invisible, locking her in place at the center of a void that wasn’t entirely empty.

She reached inward instinctively, searching for the fire within her. Her magic. It was there, boiling in her blood, pulsing with heat and light—but unreachable. Her thoughts felt thick, muddled, caught in a fog she couldn’t pierce. Her power slipped through her mental grasp, like water through splayed fingers.

Then came the screeches.

"Sylveris! Vaelyx!"

Their cries tore through the oppressive silence, sharp and wild. Her eyes, adjusting to the gloom, caught glimpses of them. The dragons were bound like her, restrained on jagged stone pedestals. Sylveris twisted and shrieked, her snowy wings pinned by ghostly chains. Vaelyx snarled, golden-red scales gleaming with fury as he thrashed against the bindings.

Visenya fought to move, to scream, to do something—but her body refused. All she could do was watch as the Undying came.

They slid from the darkness, gaunt figures of bluish flesh and sunken eyes. Dozens of them, maybe more, draped in tattered robes that whispered as they moved. They didn’t walk; they glided, impossibly silent, save for the voices that buzzed just beneath hearing. Words, languages, fragmented whispers that clashed and swirled into a cacophony of nonsense and dread.

Cold hands touched her.

Fingers, papery and wet, dragged across her arms and throat. They pulled at her clothes, tugging at fabric and leather with eager, clawing hunger. She felt nails dig into her shoulders, teeth scraping her neck. Her skin crawled, panic roiling in her chest like a trapped scream. Every part of her recoiled, but she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe .

The whispering intensified. Words rose from the chaos:

Fire made flesh. Fire must be tasted. Fire must be devoured.

She wanted to fight, to burn them all down to ash, but she couldn’t reach her flame. Her magic was there, right there , just beyond the fog—but locked away by the ancient sorcery of this place. She clenched her teeth, pain lancing through her as she felt another bite, a bruising grip.

And still, Sylveris and Vaelyx screamed.

Visenya shut her eyes. Not in surrender, but in focus. She pictured Daenerys, her twin, her light. She felt their bond thrumming, still intact. She clung to it. To her . Her sister. Her love.

"Dany," she whispered, the word barely a breath on her lips. "Please... find me."

The cold crept deeper. The whispering grew louder.

And all she could do was hope.

The world was pain and shadow.

Visenya couldn't tell how long she'd been held, her limbs numb, her head swimming. The weight of the magic churned in her veins, boiling and clawing to be unleashed, but her mind was a haze, fogged and sluggish, like she was half-submerged in cold water. Her vision flickered between blackness and blurred movement, distorted like reflections off rippling glass. She could hear Sylveris and Vaelyx shrieking, bound nearby on cold pedestals, their cries raw and panicked. She wanted to reach them, to protect them, to scream, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t think.

And then—silver.

Silver hair like fire in the darkness. Daenerys.

She came like a storm, her silhouette a blade of vengeance in the gloom. Visenya barely made out the shape of Dark Sister gripped in Daenerys’s hands—her hands. When had the sword left Visenya’s side? She hadn’t even noticed.

Daenerys was yelling something she couldn’t hear through the fog, her dragons clinging to her shoulders, wings outstretched. Aenryx and Drakarion shrieked like fury given form, the torchlight glinting off their growing scales. As one of the Undying lunged, Daenerys swung Dark Sister with a fury that rivalled any warrior, cleaving through rotted flesh and brittle bone.

She came to Visenya’s side, dropping to one knee beside her, eyes wide with horror and love. "Visenya," she breathed, trying to untangle the bindings of ghostly, writhing magic.

Visenya stirred, her head rolling weakly toward her sister. Her lips barely moved, her voice cracked and dry.

"Dragons," she rasped.

Daenerys froze, then looked to the bound forms of Sylveris and Vaelyx. For a moment, she hesitated. She didn’t want to leave her twin, not even for a second. But then she saw the plea in Visenya’s eyes, dim and tired but still full of fierce, desperate clarity.

"Hold on," Daenerys whispered.

She darted to the nearest pedestal, hacking at the magical bindings. Sylveris let out a burst of flame that sizzled through the darkness. Vaelyx writhed, his shrieks deafening, until Dany freed him too. They clambered into her arms, pressing against her even as she returned to Visenya.

The Undying were moving again, more of them emerging from the walls, the ceiling, the very air. Daenerys slung Visenya’s arm over her shoulder, half-lifting her. Their four dragons clung to them, wings flaring and teeth bared, each one radiating heat and rage.

"You are not taking her," Daenerys hissed at the encroaching specters. Her voice was low and dangerous. "You are not taking us ."

Still Visenya couldn’t reach her magic. It thrashed under her skin, screaming to be freed, but the fog held her fast. Her heart pounded. Her breathing ragged. But as her head rested against Daenerys’s, the warmth of her twin pressed close, something began to stir.

A flicker.

The first spark.

The fire hadn't left her.

And if they could just hold on a little longer, maybe—just maybe—they could set the whole damn world alight.

The Undying advanced.

Their bodies were desiccated, flesh like dried parchment, eyes sunken but glowing with unnatural hunger. Their fingers stretched like claws toward the twins, and their mouths opened to whisper words that made the air taste like rot and despair.

Daenerys could feel Visenya trembling against her side, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her weight heavier than ever. She clutched Dark Sister tighter, the Valyrian steel trembling slightly in her hands. She wasn’t a warrior—not like her sister—but she would stand for her.

Drakarion growled low, his red-black wings flared, and Aenryx bared her teeth, crouched with a predator's poise. Sylveris screeched furiously from where she clung to Visenya’s shoulder, and Vaelyx writhed and hissed in Daenerys’s grasp.

The Undying moved closer.

Daenerys raised the sword, and though her arms shook, her voice was clear and sharp with defiance as she cried, "Dracarys!"

Four dragons answered.

Flame burst forth—not the powerful torrents of full-grown dragons, but fire still potent, searing and alive. Flame roared into the air, converging on the advancing figures. The Undying shrieked, limbs curling and cracking, some igniting like dry kindling.

And in that instant, Visenya felt the echo.

The command, the fire, the unity of their dragons—it all stirred something within her. Though she still could not see clearly, though her body was leaden and her thoughts sluggish, she felt it.

Daenerys had commanded fire.

And her fire had answered.

Magic surged up from the depths of her core, boiling through her veins, no longer locked away. Her hand twitched, then lifted, fingers trembling. Her skin glowed faintly, heat radiating outward. Visenya focused everything on that feeling, that burning, that singular purpose:

Protect Daenerys.

"Dracarys," she whispered hoarsely.

And the fifth flame erupted.

Not from a dragon's throat—but from Visenya's palm. A blast of violet-gold fire burst forward, wild and fierce, joining the others. The wave of dragonfire scorched the oncoming Undying, their bodies curling and melting, ancient voices howling in agony as their enchantments shattered under the assault.

Daenerys clung to Visenya with one arm, holding Dark Sister in the other, her eyes wide with awe and something deeper— pride . She could feel the magic rolling off her sister like a storm, fire and power and vengeance made flesh.

Together, with their dragons screaming and fire roaring, the twins stood as the Undying burned.

Until the room was silent.

Until there were no shadows left but their own.

Chapter 9: IX

Summary:

Leaving Qarth and a wedding at the Twins.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

IX

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The harbor of Qarth bustled with activity, filled with the shouts of dockworkers, the creak of ships, and the thick, pungent scent of fish, spice, and sweat. Brightly painted sails billowed under the coastal wind, merchants shouted in half a dozen tongues, and the air carried the distant sound of bells clanging from ships prepared to depart. Yet for Visenya and Daenerys, the world felt as if it existed at a distance, dulled by exhaustion, and still echoing with the haunting memories of the House of the Undying.

Visenya leaned heavily against Daenerys, her arm slung around her twin’s shoulder, relying on her for balance and strength. Her legs ached with each step, her skin slick with sweat and far too pale, her body still recovering from the assault of the warlocks’ sorcery. The magic still coiled deep in her bones like embers refusing to fade, but her strength had not returned. She kept moving with stubborn pride, unwilling to show weakness. Sylveris was perched tight to her neck, wings drawn in close, ever watchful, while Vaelyx nestled in one of her arms, chirping anxiously. Drakarion and Aenryx peeked their heads out from beneath Daenerys’s cloak, nestled close against her ribs, their eyes bright and alert.

Xaro Xhoan Daxos rode alongside in his opulent palanquin, his expression a delicate mask of concern lined with false charm. "You must understand, my sweet stars," he said, voice syrupy and light as he fanned himself lazily, "Pyat Pree will not forget your defiance. Even now he rallies the remnants of his brethren. And I fear others in the Thirteen may begin to side with him. The tides shift quickly in Qarth."

Visenya’s jaw clenched, her grip on Daenerys tightening. Though her limbs trembled, her gaze burned. "Let him come," she rasped. "We will leave only ashes."

Xaro sighed dramatically. "Such fire, my starlit warriors. But you cannot fight the world alone. I offer you sanctuary—my palace, my coffers, my ships. All this, if you’ll accept my hand. Or, if that is too much, one of your dragons. Just one. And I shall make you queens in truth."

Daenerys halted, her voice icy and calm. "We are not for sale."

Visenya’s low growl echoed beneath the harbor din, more animal than human. Xaro flinched, his mask slipping for a heartbeat.

"Then I wish you luck, my stars," he said with forced civility. "You will need it."

He disappeared into the crowd, his palanquin vanishing into the labyrinthine streets, leaving them standing with only Jorah and the distant noise of the dock behind.

Jorah approached quickly, concern etched across his face. "I’ve been asking around. There’s one ship willing to take you, but it’s not backed by the Thirteen or Xaro. That makes it dangerous—but perhaps safer in the long run. The captain demands secrecy. We’d board at night, quietly. If we’re to take the chance, it has to be soon."

Before Daenerys could answer, Visenya straightened, her weariness momentarily forgotten. Her eyes swept the crowded pier. "We’re being watched."

Two figures approached slowly. One was a hulking brown-skinned man, his bare chest scarred and broad, with only a tiny vest of iron-studded leather over it. His curved arakh gleamed at his side. The other was older, garbed in a plain traveler's cloak with white hair and beard, leaning heavily on a tall wooden staff. His eyes were intelligent, assessing.

The old man offered a slight bow. "I am called Arstan, though this one, Belwas here—" he gestured to his companion "—calls me Whitebeard."

"And who is Belwas?" Daenerys asked.

The large man thumped his chest with pride. "Strong Belwas. From the fighting pits of Meereen. Never lost a match. Each man may cut me once. Then I kill him. Count my scars, and know how many I’ve slain."

Dany looked over the tapestry of pale scars crisscrossing his skin. "And why are you here, Strong Belwas?"

“From Meereen I am sold to Qohor, and then to Pentos and the fat man with sweet stink in his hair. He it was who send Strong Belwas back across the sea, and old Whitebeard to serve him.”

"Illyrio," Visenya said, her voice sharp.

"Yes, Your Grace," Arstan replied with a respectful incline of his head. "He regrets not coming himself, but the sea troubles his health, and his legs are not what they were."

Visenya narrowed her eyes, her instincts on edge. The warlocks had left her mind clouded, but she could still smell deception. Her hand hovered near her belt.

"What does he want?" Daenerys asked.

"You," Belwas said bluntly. "And your dragons."

"To bring you back to Pentos," Arstan continued smoothly. "Westeros is fractured. Robert is dead. Four kings war, and none rule. Illyrio believes you are the future."

"And he offers ships?" Daenerys asked.

"Three," Arstan confirmed. "The Saduleon, the Summer Sun, and Joso’s Prank."

Daenerys exchanged a long look with Visenya, who nodded weakly.

"Then they will bear new names," Daenerys said. "Vhagar. Meraxes. Balerion. Paint it in gold. Let them know—the dragons are returned."

Visenya, weary and half-shaking from the lingering magic, allowed herself a tired smile. But the fire behind her eyes had not dimmed. Not yet.

~~

Daenerys held tightly to Visenya as they crossed the gangplank onto the lead ship—the newly renamed Balerion . Salt air whipped around them, the deck creaking underfoot as the ship rocked gently in its mooring. Visenya leaned heavily on her, still pale and weary, her steps steady only because of Daenerys's unwavering presence beside her. Their dragons moved around them restlessly, sensing their mothers' unease, weaving between their legs or clinging to the folds of their cloaks.

Jorah barked soft orders to the sailors, ensuring the loading of supplies continued unhindered. The crew, clearly aware of who now stepped aboard, kept their distance with a mix of awe and wariness. No one had forgotten the fire that had consumed the House of the Undying, nor the rumors of twin queens and their four dragons.

Daenerys kept them on deck until the last line was cast off and the sails filled with wind, the ship gliding slowly out of the harbor. Qarth shrank behind them, its towers and domes swallowed by the horizon as the sea welcomed them once more.

Only once the city was gone did Daenerys speak, her voice soft and trembling with barely held emotion. "Jorah, you have command. We will be below."

He nodded with understanding and a hint of worry as he watched them go. Visenya said nothing, her violet eyes distant, her body still trembling faintly with the aftershocks of the magic and torment she had endured.

Their cabin was much more spacious than the one on their last voyage, with a bed wide enough for them and their dragons to curl into comfortably. Daenerys guided Visenya to sit, kneeling beside her and gently removing her boots, her hands lingering as if afraid Visenya might disappear again. Sylveris and Drakarion climbed onto the bed immediately, whining soft, anxious sounds, while Aenryx and Vaelyx pressed close to their legs, all four dragons unmistakably concerned.

Visenya tried to smile, to say something reassuring, but before she could speak Daenerys climbed into her lap, straddling her thighs and wrapping her arms around her neck. She buried her face against Visenya's shoulder, holding her twin so tightly it was as if she meant to fuse them into one. Visenya's arms came up slowly, instinctively, cradling Daenerys in return.

"I thought I'd lost you," Daenerys whispered, the words catching. "When the darkness swallowed you, when I couldn't find you... I was so afraid. I can't... I can't do this without you."

Visenya's fingers threaded through her sister's silver hair, resting her forehead against Daenerys's. "You didn’t lose me," she said hoarsely. "You found me. You always do."

They clung to each other in silence, hearts pounding in time, their breaths slowly syncing. Around them, their dragons made a nest of warmth and presence, pressing against their legs, bellies, shoulders. The rhythm of the sea, the gentle sway of the ship, and the deep thrum of their shared bond wrapped around them like a second skin.

They were not alone. They never had been. And in each other's arms, they remembered what it meant to survive—together.

Daenerys drew back just enough to look into Visenya's face, her breath trembling with emotion, her chest rising and falling against her sister's. The closeness between them had always been a constant, an unconscious gravity that pulled them together—but now, in the quiet safety of the cabin, that pull felt like the tide itself, irresistible and ancient. Their violet eyes met, twin flames mirrored in intensity, pain, and yearning, each reflecting what the other had carried in silence for so long.

Visenya looked up at her, surprise flickering in her expression for just a heartbeat before melting into something deeper—something older than names or crowns or kingdoms, something etched into the very marrow of their bones. Love that had always existed, but never before allowed to rise to the surface.

Daenerys’s hand rose, her fingers trembling as they brushed lightly along Visenya’s cheek, tracing the faint lines of exhaustion, power, and fire-earned strength. "You came back to me," she whispered, her voice raw and fragile like the wind before a storm. "I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you again..."

Visenya leaned into the touch instinctively, her breath hitching as her eyes fluttered shut. She breathed in Daenerys’s scent—salt and silk and something warmer beneath it all, something undeniably hers. When her eyes opened again, they glistened—not just with the lingering embers of magic, but with a vulnerable devotion that pierced through every layer of restraint.

Daenerys didn’t ask permission. She didn’t need to. The answer lived in the way Visenya looked at her, in the way her hands gripped her waist like the only solid thing left in the world, in the soft quiver of her lips as their foreheads touched.

When their lips finally met, it was a collision of breath and soul, impossibly soft yet unbearably intense. There was no urgency in the kiss—only reverence. It was a sacred moment, the unspoken made tangible, the aching silence of years shattered in the gentlest way possible. It was not a beginning, but a recognition of something that had always been.

Their mouths moved in unison, tender and exploring, like artists shaping something sacred. Daenerys cupped Visenya’s face as though it were the most fragile and precious thing in the world, while Visenya's arms wrapped around her twin, holding her so tightly that their heartbeats seemed to fuse.

Around them, their dragons stirred but made no sound. Drakarion and Sylveris pressed closer against their mothers, while Aenryx and Vaelyx curled at their feet, tails and wings tangled in peaceful sleep. Even they seemed to know this moment mattered.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Daenerys pressed her forehead against Visenya’s, her eyes shut tight against the surge of emotion. Her fingers still rested at Visenya’s jaw, her thumbs brushing away tears neither of them had realized had fallen.

"You are mine," Daenerys breathed, her voice thick with emotion, not as a demand but as a truth long denied.

Visenya’s arms tightened around her, her response barely more than a whisper, yet absolute. "And I’ve always been yours."

In the hush that followed, with the sea rocking them gently and the dragons curled around them like living embers, the world receded. There was no throne, no war, no fate pressing down on their shoulders—only each other, the heat between them, and the quiet, powerful certainty that they belonged to one another in every way that mattered.

The cabin was quiet in the aftermath, lit only by the dim golden glow of a single lantern swaying gently with the rocking of the ship. Outside, the sea stretched in all directions, Qarth a vanishing speck in the distance. Inside, the silence between Daenerys and Visenya was thick with unspoken emotion, not tense, but reverent—as if they were afraid to disturb the fragile stillness of the moment they’d just shared.

Their dragons lay nestled around them, forming a protective, living barrier of warmth and breath. Drakarion and Sylveris curled closest, their snouts tucked under wings or against their mothers' sides. Aenryx, ever graceful even in sleep, rested her head atop Daenerys’s thigh, while Vaelyx sprawled across Visenya’s lap like a lazy cat, one clawed paw draped possessively over her hip.

Visenya lay on her side, one arm wrapped around Daenerys, her other hand on Vaelyx’s soft-scaled back. Her skin still felt too warm, faintly feverish, and her breaths occasionally came short and tight, but already the weight from the Warlocks’ spell was lifting. The fog in her mind—the stifling, smothering distortion that had clung to her since the House of the Undying—was slowly unraveling. Not entirely gone, not yet. But something inside her had shifted.

She could feel it.

It wasn’t the slow healing of time alone. No, this was something more visceral—like fire being kindled anew. Her magic, once blocked and trapped like molten metal sealed in stone, now flickered within her veins, restless and alive. She knew without a doubt that when Daenerys had pointed Dark Sister and spoken that command—“Dracarys”—something in Visenya had ignited. As if Dany’s voice had reached past the bindings of sorcery and reminded her magic that it belonged to her, that it could burn again.

She had let her twin wield her like a weapon. And in that surrender, she had broken free.

Daenerys shifted slightly, brushing back a few strands of silver-white hair from Visenya’s brow. Her touch lingered, tender and reverent. “Your fever is breaking,” she whispered, voice raw with the remnants of fear. “I can feel it.”

Visenya let her eyes drift shut, feeling the thrum of her sister’s heartbeat under her fingertips. “It’s like… I can breathe again. The fire—it’s there. I can feel it. I couldn’t before.”

“Because they tried to bury it.” Daenerys pressed a kiss to her temple. “But they didn’t understand what they were touching. You aren’t just magic, ‘Nenya. You are the storm that commands it.”

A soft sound escaped Visenya, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You gave it back to me.”

Daenerys shook her head. “No. I just reminded it of who you are.”

Around them, the dragons stirred—perhaps sensing the shift within their mother. Sylveris, sharp-eyed and ever watchful, nuzzled against Visenya’s neck with a soft chirp. Drakarion pressed closer to Daenerys’s thigh, tail curling protectively around her leg. The other two, not to be left out, began wriggling upward to rest between their mothers, creating a nest of limbs and scales and warmth.

Visenya buried her face in Daenerys’s shoulder, breathing her in, letting herself finally relax. “We’ll be okay now,” she murmured, the words not a question, but a vow.

Daenerys’s arms tightened around her. “We will. We have each other.”

Their lips didn’t meet again that night, not with fire, but their foreheads touched, and their hands remained entwined over Vaelyx’s back. In the hush of the dark, rocked gently by the sea, the dragon twins held each other close and slept—no longer bound by past wounds or future fears, but united by the fire reborn between them.

And outside the cabin, the three ships cut through the water like sleek shadows in the moonlight, their sails full and their prows pointed toward the unknown.

~~

The sea stretched endlessly around them, waves shimmering under the golden afternoon sun as the ship cut through the water with practiced ease. A week had passed since they had left Qarth behind, and with each passing day, Visenya's strength continued to return. The oppressive weight left behind by the Warlocks' dark magic was slowly fading, burned away by the fire inside her, by Daenerys's love, and by the constant presence of their dragons.

The deck had become their sanctuary. In the early mornings and fading twilight, the dragons would practice taking to the air, their wings still awkward but gaining strength each day. First just short hops above the deck, then longer glides over the water, always returning to their mothers in a rush of wings and chirps.

Drakarion and Sylveris were the boldest, challenging one another constantly. The two would leap from the rigging in daring spirals, screeching with exhilaration. Vaelyx chased after them with mischievous glee, while Aenryx preferred smooth, gliding motions, her tail flicking in elegant rhythm. The four dragons moved as one—siblings and rivals and a nest all their own.

On this particular afternoon, Visenya stood with Daenerys at the stern of the ship, her twin's arm wrapped tightly around her waist. Her body still ached faintly, but she welcomed it—it reminded her she was healing. Resting her cheek against Daenerys's temple, she watched their dragons soar in lazy loops above the sea. Drakarion gave a triumphant screech as he dove a little farther than before, only for Sylveris to whirl mid-air and dart past him in a shimmering white blur, tail curling smugly.

"She cheats," Visenya murmured with a laugh, warmth blooming in her chest.

"She’s you," Daenerys replied, lips brushing Visenya’s jaw in a whisper of affection. "Of course she cheats."

Beside them stood Jorah and Arstan Whitebeard, watching the display with measured silence. After a moment, Arstan spoke, his voice quiet but tinged with nostalgia.

"I served for a time in King’s Landing," he began, "in the days when King Aerys sat the Iron Throne, and walked beneath the dragonskulls that looked down from the walls of his throne room. Never have I imagined ever seeing them alive."

"Viserys talked of those skulls," Dany said softly. "The Usurper took them down and hid them away. He could not bear them looking down on him upon his stolen throne."

She turned her gaze to Arstan. "Did you ever meet our royal father?"

"I had that great honor, Your Grace," Arstan said, his expression betraying emotion he tried to keep hidden.

"Did you find him good and gentle?"

He hesitated. "His Grace was... often pleasant."

Dany gave a faint smile. "Often? But not always?"

"He could be very harsh to those he thought his enemies."

Visenya tightened her hold around Dany’s waist, her body tense. The name Aerys meant little to her beyond the shadow it cast over their past.

"A wise man never makes an enemy of a king," Dany said. "Did you know my brother Rhaegar as well?"

Arstan bowed his head. "It was said that no man ever truly knew Prince Rhaegar. I had the privilege of seeing him in tourney, and hearing him play his harp with its silver strings."

Jorah snorted. "Along with a thousand others at some harvest feast. Next you’ll claim you squired for him."

"I make no such claim, ser," Arstan said. "Myles Mooton was Prince Rhaegar’s squire, and Richard Lonmouth after him. He knighted them himself, and they remained close companions. Jon Connington was dear to the prince as well, but his oldest friend was Arthur Dayne."

Dany brightened. "The Sword of the Morning! Viserys always spoke of his white blade. He said Ser Arthur was the only knight who could match Rhaegar."

Arstan inclined his head. "It is not my place to question Prince Viserys."

"What do you mean?" Daenerys asked.

"A warrior without peer... those are fine words, Your Grace, but words win no battles."

"Swords win battles," Jorah said.

"He did know how to use one," Arstan agreed. "But I’ve seen a hundred tournaments and more wars than I care to count. A knight may win one tourney and fall in the next. A slick patch of grass may bring defeat. A wind may gift victory. Even the greatest can falter."

Visenya studied him closely. "But Rhaegar was the last dragon."

"Perhaps," Arstan said, his voice reverent and sad all at once. "But even dragons fall."

The four of them watched as their dragons danced in the sky above, unaware of the weight of memory in the air. Visenya pressed closer into Dany, her eyes never leaving their children.

"Then we will rise," she said, quiet but firm. "And this time, we won't fall alone."

Dany's hand found hers, fingers intertwining. "Together. Always."

And in the sunlight, as wind filled the sails and dragons cried out across the waves, it felt—for a moment—as if the world itself breathed with them.

The afternoon light dimmed slightly as Arstan Whitebeard took his leave, his staff clicking gently along the deck as he disappeared below. The golden sun cast long shadows across the ship’s deck, reflecting off the sea in a shimmering trail of fire. The breeze tugged at the sails with increasing insistence, the vessel cutting steady through the waters toward an uncertain horizon. Silence lingered for a few moments, the weight of everything they had seen and learned pressing down on them like an invisible fog, before Jorah broke it.

"I do not trust Illyrio," he said plainly, arms crossed over his chest, his expression grim. "His motives are his own, and I fear what strings may be attached to the aid he offers. Nothing he does comes without a price."

Visenya gave a small nod, still nestled close to Daenerys at the railing. Though her body was steadier now, the lingering effects of the Warlocks’ magic clung to her like cobwebs in her bones. The fire inside her had begun to burn again—faint but growing stronger. "Neither do I," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "He sees us as a piece to be moved on his gameboard, not people. Not rulers."

Daenerys glanced at her twin, concern flashing in her violet eyes before she turned her gaze to Jorah. "What would you suggest instead? We have limited time, and fewer allies than ever."

Jorah turned his gaze out to the waves, as if the rolling tide might whisper a solution. "We need an army. Ships we can find in time, but swords will win battles and hold cities. And there is one place where we can find the finest soldiers in the world. Soldiers who do not break. Who do not betray, do not steal, do not rape."

"The Unsullied," Visenya said, the word like cold iron on her tongue. Her jaw tightened slightly. "The slave-soldiers of Astapor."

Jorah nodded. "You’ll need gold, but fewer of them are worth more than thousands of freer men. They are disciplined, ruthless, and most importantly—they are not beholden to Illyrio or any other noble house. You’d build your own foundation. A force loyal to you alone."

Daenerys was silent for a long moment, her eyes drifting downward to where their dragons were gliding beneath the rigging, the sunlight catching their wings in flashes of obsidian, ivory, bronze, and gold. Their cries echoed against the waves. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and thoughtful. "Free men fight for coin or for kings. But the Unsullied… they fight because they are told to."

"And they do not falter," Jorah said. "Not easily. They will follow you to the ends of the world, if commanded."

Visenya’s shoulders were taut. The familiar tension of magic coiled under her skin. She could feel it pulsing in her blood, no longer as distant as before. "We would be using slaves to win our war," she said, her tone sharp, tinged with the old guilt that always came when power came at the cost of freedom.

The twins exchanged a glance, the weight of the moment settling between them like an ancient stone. Their hands found each other’s instinctively, fingers intertwining. The choice was not simple, nor was it clean. But it was real. A future laid not with borrowed promises and silk-tongued magisters, but one forged with fire, steel, and their own will.

"Then we sail for Slaver’s Bay," Daenerys said at last, her voice resolute, steady like a drawn blade. "To buy an army—and perhaps, to start unmaking the world that made them."

Visenya’s grip tightened, her eyes blazing. "Let it begin. We change everything."

The wind swelled around them, filling the sails with purpose. The ship turned ever westward, toward a fate none of them could see, the sun setting in blazing fire behind them as four dragons cried to the sky above.

And in that sound, the world listened.

~~

The last light of day bled over the towers of the Twins, casting a red-gold glow that did little to lift the weight pressing against Lyarra's chest. The wedding had gone smoothly enough—Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey bound together in awkward but necessary union. Lyarra had stood tall during the ceremony, silent and shadowed beside her brother, Robb, watching from the sidelines like a reminder of broken promises and the strain that war carved into bone and blood.

When the feasting began, she had been quietly informed that the great hall was for highborn guests only. She was welcome to attend the other feast in the second castle with the captains and lower-ranking soldiers, but her pride wouldn't allow her to pretend at celebration among strangers, nor did she desire to drink and dance beneath the disapproving eyes of House Frey.

So she left.

The sounds of music and raucous laughter echoed across the cold river water as she crossed back over the narrow bridge, the stone beneath her boots slick with the mist rising from the river. The campfires of the northern host flickered in the distance like stars scattered across the earth. Around them, the common soldiers laughed and drank deeply from shared jugs of ale, roasting strips of meat over open flames, their voices rising in song—mostly off-key, but full of the kind of joy born of fleeting peace and full bellies. Some danced in stumbling circles, others passed around instruments or clapped along to the rhythm. There was life in the camp that didn’t rely on titles or duties, just a hard-earned moment of rest.

Ghost met her halfway to her tent, silent as always, his red eyes gleaming with quiet understanding. He pressed his massive head against her side and she curled her fingers into the thick white fur of his ruff, grounding herself in his presence.

Grey Wind was further ahead, pacing the edge of the camp like a restless sentinel. The direwolves had not been welcome in the castle—too dangerous, too wild—but to Lyarra, they were kin.

She joined them near the treeline, settling down on a bedroll beside a low-burning fire. Ghost circled once before lying at her back, his warmth a shield against the chill creeping into the night. Grey Wind eventually trotted over, his flank brushing hers before he lay down with his snout resting near her knee.

The wind carried the scent of cooked meat and woodsmoke, mixing with the muffled cheers and occasional bursts of song drifting from the camp. Lyarra exhaled slowly, letting the noise of the castle and its polished pretenses fade into the dark. Here, with the wolves, she did not have to pretend. There was no feast, no songs, no prying eyes. Just the hush of wind through trees, the crackle of fire, and the slow, steady rhythm of hearts that beat like her own.

She reached out and stroked Ghost's fur. "You're the only ones I trust anymore," she murmured. "The only ones who don't look at me like I'm a puzzle to solve or a sword to wield. Even Robb struggles with it at times now."

Ghost huffed, and Grey Wind let out a low, contented growl.

Lyarra smiled faintly. Whatever waited inside those stone walls—laughter, wine—it could have its night. She had chosen her place.

Lyarra didn't notice anything was wrong at first. The camp was loud with celebration, the kind of reckless joy that followed too many bitter nights on campaign. Soldiers shouted drinking songs, laughter echoed through the tents, and somewhere off by one of the fires, a man was playing a harp badly. Barrels of ale had been cracked open, and the smell of roasted meat lingered thick in the cool night air. Flames from bonfires danced merrily, casting golden light over faces flushed with drink and cheer. But Ghost and Grey Wind noticed.

Both direwolves lifted their heads in eerie unison, ears perking toward the Twins. Grey Wind stood first, muscles tense, a low growl building in his throat. Ghost’s lips peeled back to reveal his sharp teeth as he stepped closer to Lyarra, red eyes narrowing with menace. She paused, brow furrowing, sensing something shift.

The unease in Lyarra's stomach hardened into dread.

Then came the first scream. It was faint over the celebration, but sharp and wrong. The sound of steel followed it—metal clashing, not in a drill or training bout, but in desperate fury. Her hand flew to her bastard sword. She rose swiftly, urgency in every line of her body.

"Ghost, Grey Wind!" she barked, already sprinting toward her tent. She had no armor, no shield, but she had her sword and the fire boiling in her blood.

Frey and Bolton men were already in the camp, blades wet with northern blood. Lyarra had to fight her way to her own tent, her sword a blur as she cut down one attacker after another. Ghost tore into a man lunging for her back, while Grey Wind barrelled through a trio of foes to clear the way forward. Blood soaked into the ground, screams of the dying rose above the drunken singing that still lingered on the edges of the camp.

She reached her tent breathless, slamming through the flap and scanning the space in a heartbeat. Even through the canvas walls, the noise of slaughter was unmistakable. Screams of men and horses, the shouts of betrayal, steel upon steel, and the whoosh of torches being turned to flame against northern banners. The massacre had already become undeniable—too many screams, too many torches, too much blood. This wasn’t betrayal. It was extermination.

She shoved aside her sleeping cot and reached for the ironbound chest at the back of the tent, her breath ragged. She had to move fast. She barely spared time to sling a leather satchel over her shoulder, filled with whatever essentials she could grab—maps, coin, a small dagger. Her fingers fumbled with the key before it clicked open.

Inside, nestled in dark velvet and wrapped in old wool, was the icy blue dragon egg. It glimmered in the low light, veins of silver and frost glinting faintly along the surface. The sight of it made her breath catch. The faint hum of magic within it steadied her for a heartbeat. This was all she had left of the secret that had lived beside her for years. The final piece of the truth Ned Stark had hidden from the world.

She lifted it with shaking hands, cradling it protectively against her chest. Then she rose again, sword in one hand, egg clutched to her chest in the other, and stepped back into the chaos.

Shapes moved through the camp—Frey men, some Bolton, wearing the cloaks of allies, now soaked in blood. Looting had already begun—soldiers rifled through the fallen, ripping boots from dead feet, cutting belts and coin purses away from corpses, even stripping cloaks from still-warm bodies. One man bent to pry a ring off a severed hand.

Lyarra struck the first of them without hesitation, driving her blade into the man’s chest before he even registered her presence. Ghost tore into another, his massive body a flash of white fury. Grey Wind was ahead, ripping through enemies with savage precision, a beast born of war and vengeance.

She didn’t stop to think. She cut down a Frey soldier lunging toward a young northern archer barely old enough to grow a beard. She screamed at a group of bannermen, trying to rally them even as more allies fell around her. Flames from overturned cookfires threw wild shadows across the battlefield, turning friend and foe into silhouettes of carnage.

Blood sprayed across her leathers as she cleaved a path toward the edge of the river, where she’d last seen some of Robb’s men. Bodies littered the muddy ground, steel glinting red in the torchlight. The war song in her heart was loud now, pulsing with grief and rage.

She couldn’t reach the Twins, not yet, but she could save whoever she could get to. She just had to keep moving. And survive.

She was not going to die like this. Not here. Not tonight.

The sounds of slaughter echoed all around her. Screams. Steel. The wet, ugly sound of flesh being torn or cut. Lyarra stumbled through the chaos, her sword arm slick with blood—some hers, some not. Her other arm cradled the dragon egg wrapped in a black cloak, its icy blue surface cold even through the layers, the only cool thing against the heat of fire and blood.

Her bag of belongings bounced against her back with every uneven step. Ghost and Grey Wind moved with her, flanking her like twin shadows, their snarls and howls striking terror into the Frey and Bolton men foolish enough to get in their way. More than once she saw the flash of white and grey tear into armored foes, ripping throats and leaving corpses in their wake.

She fought to save whoever she could—a young man dragging himself away from the carnage, a captain cornered by two betrayers. Her blade rose and fell without mercy, but the odds were overwhelming. The Northern camp was a slaughterhouse.

She turned to push toward the river, where she might have a chance to escape, when the pain hit her. A hard punch in her shoulder that sent her sprawling. The bolt punched through her from back to front, the metal tip piercing out through leather and flesh. For a moment, everything stilled.

She hit the ground with a gasp, stars dancing across her vision. The egg rolled slightly under her arm, its cold surface brushing her cheek. Blood from her wound seeped down her arm, staining the black cloak and dripping onto the egg. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus, trying to move, but her limbs refused.

A roar shattered the air. Ghost was over her, jaws clamping down on the throat of the man who fired the bolt. Grey Wind circled her protectively, growling low in his throat. Lyarra struggled to her feet, her sword dragging for a moment before she got a better grip. The pain made her vision swim, but she couldn't stop now. Not here.

Not when everything was burning.

With the direwolves flanking her, she limped through the chaos, striking down one last Frey who dared approach. Her breaths were shallow. The egg pulsed faintly against her side, warm now. She didn't know if it was her blood or something else.

She didn’t look back. If she did, she'd never leave.

She was alone now. Alone except for Ghost. For Grey Wind.

And for the egg in her arms, soaked in her blood and heavy with promise.

Branches tore at her as she fled into the forest. The shadows closed around her quickly, the sounds of death and fire growing fainter behind her. Her legs burned with the effort, the pain in her shoulder sending fresh waves of nausea through her, but she kept moving. Ghost remained at her side, every step silent and sure, while Grey Wind ranged ahead, clearing a path, then doubling back to snarl at any pursuit.

Blood dripped steadily from her fingers, hot and thick. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat louder than the last. The egg grew warmer with every step, pulsing with heat now, as if it were answering the call of her pain and fear.

The deeper she went, the darker it became. She no longer knew which direction she ran. The trees pressed close, branches reaching like skeletal arms. At last, her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed beneath the roots of an ancient tree, gasping, the egg clutched to her chest.

Ghost pressed in close, his body a barrier against the cold night air. Grey Wind crouched beside her, licking at the blood staining her leathers.

Lyarra sat slumped against the gnarled roots of the ancient tree, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Every beat of her heart throbbed in her shoulder, radiating agony where the bolt had torn through muscle and sinew. Her sword lay across her lap, red-streaked and heavy, and Ghost pressed close to her side, his white fur now streaked with blood that wasn't his. Grey Wind lay nearby, panting, alert and watchful, his ears flicking at every sound.

The cloak that had protected the dragon egg had fallen open in her fall, revealing the icy blue shell nestled in the folds of black cloth. It pulsed faintly in the half-light of the forest, like it was breathing.

Lyarra blinked at it, unsure if the blood loss was playing tricks on her mind. She reached out a trembling hand, fingertips brushing the cold surface.

A crack echoed through the clearing.

She stared.

The egg split along a jagged line, steam or smoke curling from the fracture as a low, keening whine rose from within. Lyarra could only watch, transfixed, as the egg cracked further, the shell breaking apart in glistening shards that fell to the bloodstained cloak.

The creature that emerged was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

Pale as fresh snow, with scales the color of moonlight and shimmering frost, the baby dragon blinked up at her with luminous violet eyes so familiar it made her breath catch. It let out a soft, uncertain chirp and took a shaky step toward her, slipping a little on the fabric.

A warmth bloomed in her chest, cutting through the haze of pain and exhaustion. It was the same feeling she'd felt the first time she held Ghost as a tiny pup—an overwhelming swell of protectiveness and love, a bond forged in that single heartbeat.

Lyarra reached out with her good arm, breathless, tears springing unbidden to her eyes. "You're real," she whispered.

The dragon gave a high-pitched squeak, then crawled the rest of the way into her lap, curling up against her stomach like it had always belonged there. Her hand moved instinctively, gently stroking its cold, damp scales with the same tenderness she’d once used to soothe Ghost. The baby dragon burrowed against her, letting out a soft trill that made something in her chest ache.

Ghost whined and nosed at the tiny creature cautiously. The dragon let out a tiny hiss in response before settling more firmly into the curve of Lyarra's body. She smiled weakly, her fingers never stopping their careful touch.

"You're not alone anymore," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "None of us are."

She looked between them—Ghost, Grey Wind, and this impossibly new, impossibly real creature in her arms—and something stirred in her soul. Despite the blood, despite the pain and the carnage she'd fled, a new purpose kindled in her heart. She would protect this child of fire and frost with everything she had left.

Above them, the wind whispered through the ancient tree's branches like a breath of old magic, bearing witness to the beginning of something new.

With a groan of pain and a renewed spark of determination in her chest, Lyarra forced herself to sit up straighter against the ancient tree's roots. The cold air bit at her damp skin, but she welcomed it; the pain meant she was still alive, and the tiny life now curled in her lap needed her to keep moving.

Her breath trembled as she looked down at her shoulder, at the jagged protrusion of the crossbow bolt still embedded there. Her thoughts swirled in a numb haze—disbelief, rage, sorrow—none of it had fully settled into her heart yet. She hadn't let herself think beyond survival, beyond what needed to be done next. Everything else was buried under the crushing weight of instinct and pain.

Her fingers shook as she broke off the splintered tip with a muffled grunt. The motion made her vision flash white at the edges, and she pressed her forehead briefly to the bark behind her, panting. Gritting her teeth, she reached for the half-full skin of ale in her bag and took a long swig to steel herself. The bitter burn grounded her. Then, without hesitation, she poured the harsh liquid over the wound. The pain flared like wildfire, and she choked on a sob, her whole body curling in on itself.

Ghost whined low and pressed against her uninjured side, while Grey Wind prowled nearby, ears pinned and hackles raised, growling softly at shadows only he could see. The baby dragon let out a distressed chirp, nuzzling into Lyarra's side, its violet eyes wide and shimmering with worry.

"I'm okay," Lyarra whispered through gritted teeth, though her voice trembled and cracked. "I'm okay, little one. Just hold on."

She pulled a strip of cloth from her pack and bit down on it as she braced herself. Her breath came in ragged gasps. With one sharp, wrenching pull, she yanked the bolt free, the sound wet and sickening. White-hot agony tore through her shoulder, and she screamed into the cloth, her scream muffled and full of raw desperation. Her hands were slick with blood as she fumbled to press another cloth into the wound, tying it as tightly as she could with one hand. The bandage was clumsy, soaked almost immediately, but it would have to do.

Her dragon keened again, trying to climb higher on her chest, its wings fluttering anxiously. Lyarra exhaled a shuddering breath and reached down to the cloak that had once protected the egg. She folded it carefully, the fabric now stiff with dried blood, and fashioned it into a makeshift sling. The baby dragon nestled instinctively into it, curling up on her arm, its small body warm and comforting despite the chill in the air.

"There," she murmured, stroking its scaled head with trembling fingers. "Safe now. You're safe."

She rose slowly to her feet, her knees buckling slightly with the effort, every muscle screaming protest. She clutched her sword in her good hand like a lifeline, her knuckles white. The pain pulsed with every step, but she embraced it. It was real. It kept her anchored.

The clearing behind her blurred, her vision streaked with tears she hadn’t realized she was crying. She cast one last look at it—the tree, the blood-soaked earth—and then turned away. It had become a place of pain, of loss, and also of impossible hope.

She turned south, away from the river and the massacre, away from the Freys and Boltons who had shattered everything. The North was closed to her now, her home defiled by betrayal and slaughter, but somewhere beyond lay a new path. Somewhere beyond, maybe, was redemption or a new family—or vengeance.

Ghost walked close at her side, his steps sure and protective, and Grey Wind flanked her other side, silent and watchful. The baby dragon stirred once in its sling, a small huff of frost-tinged air brushing her skin before it settled again, breath steady and slow.

Lyarra didn’t look back.

Lyarra stumbled forward through the darkened forest, each step heavier than the last as exhaustion gnawed at her strength. Her shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat, blood still seeping through the hastily wrapped bandage, and her vision swam with each breath. She kept moving, forcing her battered body to continue. One foot. Then another. She had to get as far from the Twins as she could before allowing herself the luxury of rest or collapse. Her hand clutched the hilt of her sword, though her grip trembled from blood loss and fatigue. The makeshift sling cradled the baby dragon close against her chest, its tiny body a precious warmth in the night’s creeping cold.

The forest pressed in around her, tall trees casting deep shadows in the moonlight. Every whisper of wind or crack of a twig made her flinch, nerves frayed to the point of snapping. Ghost and Grey Wind padded at her sides like silent sentinels, their presence grounding her, the only familiarity left in a world that had crumbled into blood and betrayal.

It was their growls that gave her the first warning.

Six men stepped from the trees ahead, blades already drawn, their Bolton sigils barely visible in the gloom. Their cruel eyes glinted with delight, and their lips curled into smirks that made her stomach twist.

“Well, look at this,” one said, voice slick with amusement. “The little Stark bitch thinks she can run.”

“Looks like she’s bleeding out already. Makes our job easier,” another sneered, brandishing his sword.

Lyarra stiffened. Her instincts screamed at her to fight, but her battered body hesitated. She didn’t have the strength—not enough to protect Ghost or Grey Wind, not enough to survive this.

But the gods were not done with her yet.

With no warning, two shapes lunged from the underbrush, snarling and massive. One leapt directly onto a soldier, knocking him to the ground with a sickening crunch. The other tore into another man’s leg before going for the throat. The Bolton soldiers cried out in alarm, their formation breaking in chaos.

Ghost and Grey Wind exploded into motion, joining the sudden frenzy. Lyarra could only watch, frozen in disbelief, as the direwolves ripped through their enemies with terrifying precision. The final two men barely managed to turn before they were torn apart, their screams echoing briefly before silence returned to the woods.

Lyarra swayed, overwhelmed by the violence, by the miracle. Her gaze found the two new direwolves as they stepped out of the shadows, their fur streaked with blood and their eyes glowing with familiar intelligence.

"Nymeria... Lady..."

The names left her lips as if pulled from her soul. They had vanished years ago, gone south with Arya and Sansa, lost to her—or so she’d thought. But here they were, grown and wild, returned to her like ghosts of a better time. They approached her cautiously, not threatening but resolute, protectors answering a call she hadn’t realized she made.

Tears streamed down Lyarra’s face. Not just for the pain or exhaustion, but for the overwhelming flood of emotion. She dropped to her knees, her breath hitching as she buried her face in Ghost’s neck, grounding herself in the soft white fur. Her dragon chirped and wriggled in her sling, confused and distressed by the chaos.

Lady stepped forward first, pressing her snout gently to the dragonling, who blinked and chirped softly in return. Nymeria stood tall behind her, watching Lyarra with quiet intensity, as though making sure she truly saw them.

“I thought I was alone,” Lyarra whispered hoarsely. “I thought I lost everything.”

But the direwolves had returned. Her dragon had hatched. Her body still bled, but her spirit—her spirit had kindled again.

Slowly, she pulled herself upright, bracing against Ghost and Grey Wind. The pain in her shoulder screamed, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive. It meant she could still fight.

The direwolves fell into formation around her without a sound, four shadows moving with perfect grace, guardians of flesh and scale.

Lyarra didn’t know where they would lead her, but she followed without hesitation, tears still drying on her cheeks, the warmth of her dragon pulsing against her heart.

The direwolves led Lyarra through the moonlit forest until they came upon a small clearing nestled between ancient oaks and twisted roots. The shadows had deepened with the night, but here, under the gentle watch of the stars, the trees parted just enough to let the sky touch the earth. It felt like a place outside of time, sacred and quiet, as though the forest itself had chosen to protect her, to shelter her in this hour of pain.

Lyarra's body trembled with every step as she crossed the clearing. Her legs ached, her shoulder throbbed with fire, and every breath was a struggle. Her limbs felt heavy and hollow, but she didn’t stop until she reached the edge of the clearing and slowly, carefully, collapsed to the ground, her back braced against the broad trunk of a tree. The bark dug into her spine, grounding her in the moment, anchoring her to something real amidst the haze of exhaustion and grief.

The baby dragon stirred in the sling across her chest, letting out a soft, warbling chirp that cut through the silence. Lyarra blinked down at the creature, her fingers fumbling slightly as she undid the sling and helped it climb out. It scaled her bloodstained tunic with tiny claws, climbing up her torso until it nestled against her collarbone. Its icy blue scales shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and its body radiated warmth—a stark contrast to the night air. Lyarra cradled it with trembling hands, her thumb stroking its small snout as it purred softly, curling beneath her chin like a heartbeat she hadn’t realized she needed.

One by one, the direwolves joined her. Ghost, ever her shadow, pressed against her left side, his red eyes alert but full of worry. Grey Wind settled at her right, his breath warm against her hip. Nymeria stepped with silent grace across the grass and stretched herself along Lyarra’s outstretched legs, her head resting by Lyarra’s knee, while Lady approached last, nuzzling gently at the dragon before lying along Lyarra’s chest above the sling. She tucked her head beside Lyarra’s uninjured shoulder and let out a slow exhale.

The four direwolves and the baby dragon wrapped around her like a living shield. A wall of fur and scales and unyielding devotion. Surrounded by them, Lyarra felt—for the first time since the horror at the Twins—a fragile sliver of safety.

Her breathing hitched. She reached for Ghost’s fur, burying her hand in the familiar softness. Her body shook violently, and her jaw clenched as the tears she had been holding back finally spilled over. Sobs burst from her lips, wild and guttural, as though her grief had finally torn free of her chest. She curled forward slightly, sobbing into Grey Wind’s flank, her shoulders shaking with every gasping breath.

The baby dragon made a sorrowful noise of its own, crawling higher to rest its head against her cheek. Nymeria whined low and pressed her muzzle closer, and Lady licked gently at Lyarra’s tear-streaked face, her touch as soft as falling snow.

She wept until her voice broke and her body trembled from more than just blood loss. She cried for Robb, her brother and king. For Catelyn, who had tried to keep them all strong. For the soldiers who had fought with honor only to die betrayed. She cried for the North, her home, lost now to treachery. And she cried for herself—the girl who had given everything and now had nothing but blood-soaked memories and pain.

And yet, through the agony, through the tears and the quiet keens of her dragon, she held to the small flicker of warmth in her arms and the fur against her skin. Her family was not gone. Not all of it.

She still had her dragon. Her wolves. Her pack.

She would rest. And then she would rise. And the world would learn that the daughter of winter, fire, and fury still lived.

~~

The morning mist clung to the forest floor as Lyarra walked beneath the eaves of the trees, her boots crunching softly against the damp leaves. They had been traveling south for days, always just within the shadows of the treeline, carefully avoiding the main road. The air smelled of pine and salt now, a sign that they were close to Maidenpool. Her shoulder still ached from where the bolt had torn through her, but the wound was healing. The sling across her chest held the small bundle of warmth nestled against her heart—the baby dragon curled tight beneath her tattered cloak, breathing in steady, contented huffs.

Ghost padded silently at her side, ever watchful.

But the other direwolves had stopped.

Lyarra turned to look behind her. Grey Wind, Nymeria, and Lady stood together at the edge of the forest path, their massive forms still and alert, their golden and amber eyes fixed on something unseen beyond the trees.

“What is it?” she asked softly, her breath fogging in the morning chill.

They didn’t move.

Grey Wind let out a low whine, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. Nymeria looked at Lyarra with something ancient and mournful in her gaze. Lady sat down, head tilted, ears twitching northward.

“No,” Lyarra whispered, the first hint of panic flaring in her chest. “Not yet. Not you too.”

She stepped toward them, but they didn’t budge. Her knees buckled beneath her and she collapsed to the forest floor, half kneeling, half falling. Her good arm reached out, wrapping around Grey Wind’s thick neck, burying her face into his fur as her body shook.

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking, raw with emotion. “Please don’t leave me. Not now. Not when you’re all I have left.”

She pressed her forehead against Nymeria’s chest, sobbing freely, her fingers tightening in Lady’s soft coat as the tears streamed down her cheeks. The dragon in the sling squirmed at her chest, chirping in distress, picking up on her pain.

“You’re my pack,” she choked out. “My family. You can’t leave me too. Everyone’s gone. Robb, Arya… even Sansa might as well be.”

Nymeria pressed her nose to Lyarra’s cheek, a warm touch of comfort and sorrow. Lady gave a low, soft howl that echoed through the woods like a lullaby of mourning.

“You want to go north,” Lyarra whispered through her grief, understanding cutting deeper than any blade. “You can feel it. The call of the pack. Of something more. Something I can’t follow yet. Not by the paths I can take. The roads are being watched, patrolled, crawling with Bolton and Frey scouts. If I try to go north now, I won’t make it. But you… you can. You can run the wilds, slip through the shadows, find what I can’t reach yet.”

She shook her head, her breath hitching. “But I’m not ready. I’m not ready to be alone. I want to go home too… but I have to find another path before I can return.”

The direwolves nuzzled into her one last time, lingering against her like a final embrace. Ghost sat beside her silently, unmoving, his red eyes shining with sadness and loyalty. He wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t.

“I love you,” she whispered into each of their ears, her heart splintering anew with each goodbye. “Be safe. Please be safe. Don’t let this world take you too.”

They pulled away slowly, reluctantly, turning their great heads north. Grey Wind looked back once, as if waiting for her to call him back.

She nearly did.

But instead, with her heart breaking, she whispered, “Go. Go home.”

The direwolves disappeared into the forest, shadows among shadows, their absence louder than any howl.

Lyarra stayed on her knees long after they were gone, her face buried in Ghost’s fur, the baby dragon whimpering quietly against her chest.

And in that silence, with her pack scattered and her family gone, Lyarra felt the weight of a thousand invisible wounds. Her dragon and her wolf remained, but without the grounding presence of the others, she felt flayed down to her soul—like every breath peeled away a layer of herself. Her grief, her fury, her heartbreak, all throbbed just beneath the surface, raw and volatile, like exposed nerves laid bare to the world. Her body trembled, not from cold, but from the violence of emotion locked beneath her skin. Every heartbeat thudded like a drum in her ears, each breath shallow and sharp, tasting of ash and salt.

The baby dragon chirped, unsettled by her pain, wriggling closer in the sling as if trying to soothe her with its warmth. Ghost pressed against her like a wall, unmovable and loyal, but even his steady presence couldn’t keep the storm inside her from unfurling its wings.

She curled tighter around herself, knuckles white as she clenched her fists, trying to keep herself from unraveling. A broken snarl caught in her throat, the edge of a sob laced with something wild. The rage inside her didn’t cry—it howled. And now, without the balance of her pack, without the comfort of their silent solidarity, there was no tether for it.

She felt it now—the fury that had simmered quietly for weeks surging up with nothing to stop it. No Robb to give her orders. No Arya to laugh and drag her into mischief. No Sansa to sing songs and pretend the world was gentler than it was. No Bran to smile that knowing little smile, or Rickon to curl against her with childlike trust. No Ned to place a steadying hand on her shoulder and call her daughter like it meant everything. No direwolves to press their weight against her and remind her of something primal and true.

She was alone, and she was burning.

With one last breath, she let the tears fall—not just in grief, but in a quiet, feral promise.

"I will come back," she whispered to the void, to the forest, to the ghosts that lingered. Her voice trembled, but there was steel beneath the sorrow. "Not like this. Not broken. Not beaten."

She would return to the North, not as a lost girl clinging to the last threads of a shattered life, but as something reborn. Something carved from grief, tempered by fury, and bound by fire and blood.

A storm yet to break.

 

Chapter 10: X

Summary:

A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

X

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The wind off the bay carried the scent of salt and smoke as Lyarra crept along the ridge just north of Maidenpool, her boots silent against the damp moss and fallen pine needles. The grey light of morning filtered through the canopy, casting long shadows that danced over her pale, bloodstained cloak. The sling holding her still-healing arm tugged with every movement, the ache constant, but she ignored it. She had grown used to pain—it was just another thing to carry.

But the rage? The rage had only grown heavier.

Below, a Lannister patrol rode lazily down the narrow road that twisted along the edge of the treeline. Four of them, armored in red and gold, laughing amongst themselves like they had not a care in the world. Like they hadn’t shattered hers. Their swords hung casually at their sides, their posture relaxed. They thought themselves safe.

Ghost moved beside her like a phantom, a low growl building in his chest, vibrating through his ribs. He nudged at her thigh with his muzzle, a silent plea, a warning. They could go around. They could avoid this.

But Lyarra’s blood was fire.

The Lannister colors burned in her vision, blinding her to reason. Her fury, her grief, her guilt—they all swirled together into something sharp and raw. She felt her baby dragon shift uneasily in the sling beneath her cloak, picking up on the storm brewing inside her. Her fingers clenched the hilt of her bastard sword, knuckles white.

She waited, crouched low, as the patrol passed beneath her. The first man’s laugh rang out, cutting across the still morning air like a slap.

Then she moved.

She dropped from the ridge like a falling blade, her boots barely touching the ground before her sword arced through the air. It struck the first soldier with a sickening crunch, cleaving through neck and collarbone, spraying blood across his companion. Before the second could scream, she yanked her blade free and plunged it through his chest with a cry born of rage and anguish.

The third soldier’s hand barely touched his hilt before Ghost barreled into him, snarling, teeth finding flesh. The man went down screaming, the sound choking off into a wet gargle as the direwolf tore into his throat.

Only one remained.

Lyarra turned, panting, blood dripping from her sword, her face a mask of fury and pain. The last Lannister had managed to draw his blade, but his hands trembled. He backed away, stumbling, eyes wide with terror as he looked from Ghost to the blood-drenched girl advancing on him.

"Please," he stammered. "We—we were just patrolling. I didn’t—"

She didn’t let him finish.

With a furious snarl, she lunged. Their blades clashed once—his clumsy, hers precise. She knocked aside his defense and drove her sword into his stomach. He gasped, shocked, looking down at the steel in his gut. She twisted it and ripped it free. He collapsed at her feet.

Silence fell, broken only by the shallow breaths of the dying and the low hiss of her dragon, who peeked from her cloak, eyes glowing like twin coals.

Blood soaked the road beneath her boots. Her heart pounded like a war drum. She stood among the corpses, shoulders heaving, muscles burning.

Ghost returned to her side, crimson splattered across his pale fur. The baby dragon coiled around her chest chirped lowly, pressing close, sensing her exhaustion, her anger.

Lyarra wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve, her body trembling not from fear, but from the sheer force of the emotion that still boiled within her. Her violet eyes scanned the bodies, then the trees, then the road ahead.

This hadn’t been justice. It hadn’t even been vengeance.

It had been necessity. Or so she told herself.

A part of her—the part not drowned in fire and cold and grief—knew they hadn’t needed to die. That if she had taken a different path, waited a few minutes longer, the patrol might have passed and been gone. That they were just men doing their duty, not the ones who slit her brother’s throat or stabbed her king in the heart. But reason was a whisper in a storm. The pain, the fury, the weight of everything she had lost, howled louder.

So she silenced them. And now they were truly gone, faces already fading from her memory, just more corpses left behind in her wake.

But gods, it had felt good.

She turned and vanished into the trees, leaving the blood of the lion behind her. Ghost followed at her heels, and the dragon clung tight.

There would be more. More Lannisters. More soldiers. More blood.

She would meet them all the same way—with fire, steel, and fury.

~

Lyarra waited until the sun dipped low beneath the horizon, shadows pooling like ink around the battered walls of Maidenpool. She lingered among the trees at the edge of the forest, hidden in dusk's embrace, her eyes locked on the movements of the city guard. Patrols shifted with the waning light, their presence thinning just enough to offer a sliver of hope. Even in the deepening dark, Ghost was no easy thing to hide. His snow-pale fur gleamed in the moonlight, and his golden eyes caught every flicker of torchlight. But she would not leave him behind. Not Ghost. Not the only family she had left.

Beneath her heavy cloak, her baby dragon stirred in the sling across her chest. The icy-blue creature, no bigger than a cat now, coiled tighter against her, sensing her unease. Its violet eyes blinked up at her, and she pressed a hand gently over its warm scales, feeling the tiny heartbeat thrum against her palm. Ghost brushed against her thigh, silent as snowfall, his presence grounding her.

She whispered to them both before slipping from the cover of the woods and into the outer lanes of Maidenpool. Her breath misted in the cooling air as she darted between narrow alleys and crooked paths, keeping to shadows, dodging open squares. Ghost moved like mist beside her, steps silent, head low. Her shoulder ached viciously under its bandages, the dull throb of pain ever-present, but she pushed it aside. There was no time for weakness. Not now.

Panic stirred beneath her ribs the closer she got to the docks. She didn’t know how long it would be until the alarm was raised, until someone found the corpses she’d left behind on the road north of town. Blood on her blade. Rage still in her chest.

The docks were a bustle of torchlight and noise, swaying masts clacking against each other as waves lapped at the piers. Sailors unloaded crates and shouted drunkenly to one another, the scent of salt, ale, and fish thick in the air. She kept her hood low, her posture careful, slipping between barrels and coils of rope.

White Harbour, she asked, again and again. Each time, the answer came back no. No ships bound north, not tonight. Not tomorrow. Some were heading south. Others to King’s Landing or even across the sea, but none toward home. And home wasn’t safe. Not anymore.

She was beginning to lose hope when she found him—a squat, sour-faced man shouting orders in clipped Valyrian. His ship bore the faded colors of Essos, its hull scarred and worn.

"Where are you sailing?" she asked, voice hoarse.

"Astapor," he replied, barely glancing her way. "We leave with the tide."

Essos. The word hit her like a gust of wind, unfamiliar and cold. Far east. Further than she had ever imagined going. But it was away. Away from the death, away from the blood, away from the ruins of her family.

"I need passage," she said, drawing out a pouch of coins from beneath her cloak.

He paused, eyeing her, then Ghost—who growled low under his breath—and finally the bulge under her cloak where her dragon shifted restlessly.

"You bring trouble?"

"Only if someone comes looking for it," she replied.

He grunted. "Below deck. Keep out of sight. Keep your beast leashed."

She nodded and crossed the gangplank quickly, Ghost padding silently behind her. None of the crew stopped her. None asked questions. They looked away.

Below deck, she found a quiet corner tucked between crates of dried fish and barrels that smelled of brine and old fruit. She sank to the floor, her legs trembling, her sword resting across her lap. Ghost lay beside her immediately, curling tight against her good side. Her dragon chirped softly, slipping free of her cloak and crawling up her chest, its head nuzzling beneath her chin.

The ship groaned as it cut from the dock, sails filling, creaking with the weight of their journey. Lyarra closed her eyes, her back pressed to the hull. The salt tang of the sea stung her nostrils. Beneath her cloak and armor, her skin was slick with sweat, grime, and blood she couldn’t entirely remember shedding.

She was leaving Westeros.

The land of her birth. The land of her family's grave.

She didn’t know if she’d ever see it again.

She had nothing left of it but a direwolf, a baby dragon... and the fury that still clawed at her heart.

She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.

Instead, she pulled Ghost closer, let the dragon nestle against her chest, and stared into the dark.

Essos awaited.

Lyarra sat in the dim shadows of the cargo hold, her back pressed to a crate as the ship creaked and groaned around her. The scent of salt and aged wood filled her nose, and every sway of the ship beneath her feet was a reminder she was moving—finally, truly leaving Maidenpool behind.

Her fingers remained tangled in Ghost's thick white fur. The direwolf sprawled beside her like a silent sentinel, his massive form tense, ears pricked, ever alert for threats. Lyarra didn’t allow herself to relax, not yet. Her eyes stayed fixed on the sliver of moonlight filtering through a narrow crack in the hull, watching, waiting. Waiting to feel the shift.

And then it came.

A slow, subtle pull. The slight rise and fall beneath her. The gentle roll of waves. The sensation of drifting. Of sailing.

The ship had left Maidenpool.

Only then did Lyarra allow herself to breathe.

The iron tension that had locked her body uncoiled in an instant, and her shoulders slumped against the wood behind her as if every muscle had given up. Her fingers trembled, pressed against Ghost’s fur, and when the first tear slid down her cheek, she didn’t try to stop it. Her breath hitched, then broke entirely.

She cried.

At first, it was silent. Her face hidden behind one arm, shoulders shaking. But it didn’t stay that way for long. Sobs rose from deep inside her chest—raw, ragged, and full of pain. The grief poured out of her like a dam breaking, and she curled around it, letting it consume her. Every image of death and betrayal, every scream she couldn’t stop, every friend she couldn’t save, it all bled out through her tears.

Ghost stirred beside her, shifting his weight until his massive head rested in her lap. Without hesitation, the direwolf climbed up, pressing his body tightly against her chest. Despite his size, he curled around her like a lapdog, tail wrapping around her side, his soft whine a low, constant comfort.

He licked the tears from her cheeks and rested his head beneath her chin. In moments like this, when it was just them, he was always like this—gentle, doting, protective. Still the oversized pup who used to sneak into her bed and refuse to leave until dawn. She clung to him now, burying her face in his fur, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

A soft chirping stirred beside her, and she blinked through her tears to see the baby dragon stirring beneath her cloak. The hatchling squirmed free of the sling still looped across her shoulder, blinking its luminous violet eyes as it crawled awkwardly onto her lap.

The dragon chirped again and nudged at her chest, wings twitching slightly. Lyarra gave a cracked, broken laugh as it nosed her chin gently, then nestled between her and Ghost, warm and insistent.

Ghost let out a rumble of approval. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his nose to the hatchling’s side, nuzzling it like a sibling. The little dragon gave a startled chirp, then cooed and curled tighter against them, letting out a huff of contentment.

Lyarra’s throat tightened at the sight.

They were all she had left.

The last remnants of a shattered life. Her pack.

Her hand trembled as she ran it over both their heads, her voice low and hoarse as she whispered, “My pack. My heart. You’re all I have now.”

And as the ship sailed east, carrying her further from home, she held them both close, grief still fresh, but no longer alone.

~~

The hold of the ship was dim and musty, lit only by slivers of moonlight that slipped through the cracks in the wood and the faint glow of lanterns above deck. Lyarra had made herself as small as she could in a corner behind stacked crates, cloaked in shadow and silence. Ghost lay curled around her legs, his thick white coat a stark contrast to the grimy boards beneath them. Though his ears twitched at every creak and footstep, his posture was relaxed, his eyes half-lidded but always watching.

She hadn't spoken more than a handful of words since boarding the ship. The sailors gave her a wide berth, whispering among themselves when they thought she couldn’t hear. A girl with a direwolf. Pale as snow. Grief painted across her face like war paint. It didn’t take much guessing. They knew.

But none dared approach her. Not when her expression could swing in seconds from hollowed sorrow to barely contained rage.

She clenched her jaw, fists curling into the fur at Ghost's ruff one moment, then letting go to cradle the dragon in the sling across her chest the next. The hatchling was nestled against her heart, icy blue scales glinting faintly in the gloom, soft huffs of breath warming her collarbone. She ran her fingers slowly down its spine, gentle and soothing, even as her mind waged war with itself.

Anger boiled inside her like a storm in her veins. She wanted the Red Keep to burn. Wanted the Twins drowned in blood. Wanted Walder Frey’s head on a pike and Roose Bolton torn apart by wolves. Wanted Tywin Lannister to choke on his own pride. She wanted retribution that echoed for generations.

And then the wave would crest and break, leaving her breathless and empty, pulled beneath the undertow of grief so vast she thought she might never rise again. Her father. Her brothers. Arya, Sansa. Robb. Ned’s calm voice, Bran’s laughter, Rickon’s bright eyes—all gone.

She blinked down at the hatchling in her arms. It blinked back at her, tilting its small, elegant head, and let out a soft trill before nuzzling into her chest.

Ghost lifted his head from her lap and leaned forward, nosing gently at the hatchling's side. The dragon squeaked in protest, wings flaring a little, but when Ghost licked her head, the hatchling chirped and curled tighter between them. They’d grown attached quickly. Ghost played with her often, letting the little dragon climb his back or nip his ears without complaint. He was endlessly patient, always gentle, just as he had been when he was the one so small and helpless.

Lyarra looked at the two of them and felt a strange, aching familiarity. She remembered when Ghost was a pup, how he would whimper and squirm until she held him to her chest, how she fed and nursed him through fever and cold. How he would curl under her cloak, nose tucked to her ribs, seeking comfort only she could give. He had been more than her companion—he had been her child. Still was, in many ways. Ghost had always looked at her like she hung the moon. Even now, with his massive form and keen eyes, he still curled around her like the pup who once needed her heartbeat to sleep. He had never stopped thinking of her as his mother—and in truth, she had never stopped thinking of herself as such. That bond between them had never lessened, only deepened with each passing year, each scar, each moment survived together.

And the hatchling... she was the same. Fragile, fierce, and hers. The same sense of protectiveness, of soul-deep love, welled in her chest every time she looked at the little dragon. The same aching need to keep her safe, to raise her strong.

Lyarra stroked the hatchling’s frill, watching the gentle rise and fall of its sides as it breathed. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke.

"Nira," she whispered. The name settled on her tongue like snow.

The hatchling shifted, lifting her head again. Violet eyes met hers, eyes that were hers in a way she hadn’t expected.

"That’s your name. Nira."

The dragon chirped again, as if in answer, and nestled closer.

"You're mine. My girl."

Her throat tightened around the words. Her eyes burned.

Ghost moved his head to rest gently atop her knee, huffing quietly. His body pressed firm and warm along her side. She buried her face in the hatchling's tiny body, arms curling around her protectively. She could feel the small heartbeat against her chest, steady and strong.

Two children, not of her blood but of her soul. One born of dire and snow, the other of fire and sorrow. Her strange, small family.

Lyarra leaned her head back against the wooden wall of the ship, staring up at the dark beams overhead. Around her, the hold groaned with the motion of the sea, but in her corner of the world, wrapped in fur and scales and love, she felt a fragile thread of peace trying to take root. She cradled both of them tighter.

Her family was strange, broken in some places, jagged in others. But it was hers. Ghost, her faithful son of winter, and Nira, her tiny fire-hearted girl of grief and rebirth.

The world had taken everything from her.

But these two souls, she would guard with her own.

Her pack. Her children. Her heart.

And the world would burn before anyone took them from her.

~~

The voyage was long and slow, the sea a never-ending expanse of grey and green, shifting with the moods of the weather. Below deck in the cramped, musty hold, Lyarra remained curled in the same corner she had claimed on that first desperate night. Crates stacked around her provided a semblance of privacy, though none of the crew dared approach the girl with the direwolf and the dragon. Whispers followed in her wake, but she paid them no mind. She no longer had the energy to care, nor the will to listen.

Her shoulder ached constantly, a slow, persistent throb that never left her. The wound from the crossbow bolt had scabbed over, and she had bound it as best she could with shaking hands and torn cloth, but she could feel how slowly it healed. The stiffness had settled deep into her muscles, her left arm still hanging useless at her side. She tried to move it every day, flexing her fingers, testing the range of motion, but knew it would be many weeks before it would hold a sword again—and far longer before it held steady.

Her body was healing, however slowly—but her mind? Her heart? Those wounds were deeper, more jagged, and far less willing to close.

She cut her food portions carefully, slicing pieces of stale bread and dried meat into thirds, giving the larger cuts to Ghost and the still-growing Nira. The dragon's appetite was small but insistent, her cries as persistent as her fire. Lyarra never once considered letting her go hungry. Nira needed to grow, to thrive. She would never know starvation or fear the way her mother had.

Ghost had begun to notice. He was watching her more intently now, his red eyes sharp with unspoken concern. He nuzzled into her side when she forgot to eat, sometimes laying his great head across her lap as if trying to will comfort into her bones. He brought her whatever scraps he could snatch unseen from the crew’s stores, and whenever Nira nipped at her fingers for food, Ghost would gently pull her back with a soft growl, curling his tail around her like a protective older brother—or an anxious son.

There were days Lyarra didn’t eat at all. Not from lack of food, but because her body simply forgot. Or refused. Her thoughts turned inward, swallowed whole by the maelstrom of rage and grief. Sometimes she stared at nothing for hours, breathing shallowly, her mind filled with burning castles, falling snow, and the echoes of her family’s laughter. Her chest felt hollow and tight at once, a bundle of exposed nerves and old scars. She’d hold her knees to her chest and rock without realizing it. Ghost would push into her side, licking her face or whining quietly, his eyes full of worry. Nira would crawl up her chest and press her small, scaly body against Lyarra's throat, trying to chase the sadness away with warmth and love.

Their bond, this strange, stitched-together family of hers, kept Lyarra tethered when nothing else could. Ghost and Nira—her fierce and loyal son, her bright and curious daughter. They were the only light she had left, and even that light was flickering under the weight of her pain. Still, they held her together. Ghost had been hers since she was just a girl, nursing him when he was the smallest of the litter, nursing him as though she were his mother—and he had never forgotten. He acted more like her child than a companion most days, patient and endlessly affectionate in the privacy they shared. And Nira, her beautiful little dragon, curled in her arms like a heartbeat she couldn’t live without.

Her emotions were jagged, shifting storms of feeling she couldn’t always control. Anger. Guilt. Grief. Loneliness. Sometimes it felt like she was drowning under it all. There were moments she would go completely still, eyes staring unseeing, fists clenched until her nails dug bloody crescents into her palms. Other times, the tears came in silence, with only Ghost’s warm side pressed against her and Nira’s soft purrs to keep her anchored.

She had felt like this before, she realized. When she was younger. When the world became too loud, too much. She remembered the way Ned would sit with her, quietly holding her hand until she could breathe again. Robb, sneaking in with sweets or dumb jokes. Arya, ever the storm herself, would crawl into bed beside her and challenge her to races through the godswood to draw her out. Even Sansa, once she'd gotten older, had learned to braid her hair in silence and speak softly of things that didn’t hurt.

She missed them all so deeply it ached in her bones. Ned’s steady hand. Robb’s laugh. Arya’s fire. Sansa’s softness. Bran’s wonder. Rickon’s wild joy. Her entire world, scattered like ash on the wind.

But they were gone. And she was here. Alone.

Except she wasn’t. Not truly. Ghost let out a quiet huff and nudged her hand until she fed him a bit of meat. Nira let out a sleepy chirp from where she lay nestled against her stomach. Lyarra smiled faintly, the expression brittle, but real.

Two small hearts beat for her. Two lives depended on her. And in their eyes, she wasn’t broken. In their eyes, she was home.

She would survive. For them.

~~

One day on the voyage, Lyarra did not speak. She stirred before dawn as she always did, but her movements were mechanical, empty of the quiet purpose that usually drove her through the day. She prepared the food in silence, cutting only two portions—one for Ghost and one for Nira. She didn’t even glance at the food she set aside for herself. Her hands moved automatically, without focus, without thought, and once the small meals were placed down, she retreated back to the shadowed corner of the hold she had claimed as their little world.

There, she sat. Motionless. Expressionless. Her eyes stared ahead, vacant, dull, as if she no longer truly saw the dim light of the lantern that swung above. She made no sound. Her breath was shallow. Her good arm wrapped protectively around her slinged shoulder and the dragon nestled beneath her cloak, but her body didn’t react to the warmth or the gentle movements of her small companion.

Ghost noticed immediately.

He had grown adept at reading her, reading the nuance of her pain, her exhaustion, her anger. But this silence was worse. This wasn’t her usual brooding solitude or the quiet sadness that sometimes overtook her. This was deeper. Darker. A hollow echo that terrified him.

He whined low in his throat, the sound a sharp contrast to the stillness. He padded toward her cautiously, his red eyes wide and full of worry. He nudged her knee with his nose. She didn’t blink. He tried again, pressing his cold nose under her chin this time. Still nothing. Her skin was clammy, her body coiled tight with tension she didn’t seem to realize was there.

The silence stretched.

Nira stirred. The hatchling was still young, her limbs clumsy and wings awkward, but she had already learned the rhythm of her mother’s breathing, the sound of her heartbeat. Something was wrong. She chirped, confused, and pulled herself out of the sling, her icy-blue scales glinting softly in the lamplight as she crawled up Lyarra’s chest.

Ghost let out another whine and did what he knew best—he climbed into her lap, as he had done when he was just a pup. He leaned his full weight into her, carefully, trying not to jostle her injured shoulder, his massive frame curling along her legs and torso. He nudged her face, licking gently along her cheek and the edge of her brow, trying to reach her behind the veil that had come over her.

He couldn’t remember his mother, not truly. Not her scent or her face. But he remembered the cold. The silence. The helpless cries. He remembered how she had stopped moving, how he had shivered and cried and waited for warmth that never came. And then—then Lyarra had found him. Young and alone, she had cradled him close, fed him, nursed him back from the edge. She had given him warmth and a name. She had given him love.

And now she was cold. Still. Gone in that same distant way he remembered.

He wasn’t going to lose her. He wouldn’t let her be alone.

Nira let out a louder trill and nosed her mother’s jaw. She pressed her head beneath Lyarra’s chin and curled there, wings draped limply over her arm like a tiny blanket. Her claws dug into the fabric of Lyarra’s cloak as she clung there, heart thrumming fast.

Then Lyarra moved.

It was slight—a twitch in her fingers, a shudder of her chest. A shallow, broken breath. Her hand lifted, trembling, to touch Ghost’s muzzle. She didn’t look at him, not yet, but her fingers curled in the thick fur beneath his ear, and a flicker of recognition stirred in her dull gaze.

Ghost whined again and nuzzled her, relief radiating from him in waves. He curled tighter into her, tail thumping once, slow and tentative. Nira chirped and pressed her cheek against Lyarra’s throat, tiny tongue flicking out to lick her skin.

The numbness didn’t fade entirely. Her body still felt too heavy, her thoughts still lost in fog. But she could feel them—her pack. Her strange, fierce, loyal children. And in that moment, they were enough to bring her back from the edge.

They huddled there for hours in silence, Ghost anchoring her to the world and Nira pulsing warmth against her skin. The storm in her heart didn’t calm, but it paused, just a little, wrapped in their love.

~~

Lyarra jolted awake with a strangled gasp, her hand reaching instinctively for a sword that wasn't at her side. Her heart pounded violently in her chest, her skin slick with sweat. The dark, stale air of the ship’s hold pressed in around her, a far cry from the blood-soaked chaos that still screamed behind her eyes.

She sat up too fast, her shoulder flaring in sharp pain, but it barely registered. Her breath came in short, rapid bursts. The sounds of the Red Wedding still echoed in her mind—the clash of steel, the wet thud of bodies hitting stone, the desperate screams of men she had tried to save. Robb's voice. Catelyn's face. Her father's silence. Her own blood slick on her fingers. Ned. Bran. Rickon. Arya. Sansa. All gone. All lost to her.

A soft chirp brought her back.

Nira had stirred from her place curled tightly against Lyarra's chest. The little dragon blinked her violet eyes—so much like Lyarra’s own—and let out another noise, sleepy and questioning. Her tiny claws flexed as she shifted closer again, nuzzling into the fabric over Lyarra's heartbeat. As if she could steady it.

Ghost lifted his head next. He had been draped over them both like a massive furred blanket, red eyes catching the dim lantern-light with an eerie glow. He didn’t make a sound, just shifted forward, pressing his forehead to Lyarra’s cheek with deliberate, grounding weight. His warmth was steady, unwavering. A silent promise: he would never let her be alone.

Lyarra clenched her good hand into the blankets, trying to will herself calm. She had learned how to hide pain and how to channel fury, but grief? Grief was different. Grief snuck in when she blinked, burrowed into her lungs with every breath, coiled around her ribs like a vice.

She whispered, barely audible, "They're all gone."

Nira chirped again, more urgently this time, then licked Lyarra's chin with her cool tongue. Ghost let out a soft huff, licking the side of her face before curling tighter around her again.

She let the tears come. Slow at first, then harder. Her hand curled protectively around Nira, her head resting against Ghost’s thick neck.

"You're all I have left," she breathed to them both. "My pack. My children."

The ship rocked gently beneath them. The groan of wood and distant splash of waves filled the silence, but inside their little corner of the world, held in the warmth of fur and scale and fragile hope, Lyarra clung to her makeshift family like a lifeline.

She didn’t sleep again that night. 

~~

The docks of Astapor were loud with life, the sun blazing overhead as ships creaked and groaned at anchor, sailors barked orders, and the scent of sea brine mingled with sweat, spice, and the ever-present stench of desperation. Lyarra stood at the top of the gangplank for a moment, squinting at the red brick sprawl of the city beyond. After weeks at sea, the land looked almost too still, too solid beneath the haze of heat rising from the sunbaked stone. Her legs felt unsteady, but she welcomed the burn in her muscles, a reminder that she was still alive.

Her shoulder ached dully with each movement, but she no longer needed the sling. Instead, she had repurposed the worn fabric into a soft carrier that cradled Nira against her chest, tucked beneath her travel-worn cloak. The little dragon shifted occasionally, her cool, ice-blue scales brushing against Lyarra's collarbone as she nuzzled deeper into the warmth. Her violet eyes, so much like Lyarra's own, flicked open from time to time, taking in the world from the safety of her mother's heartbeat. Her presence, that small heartbeat and soft exhale, grounded Lyarra in the present. It gave her something to protect, something to focus on beyond the gnawing grief and smoldering fury that still roiled inside.

Ghost padded silently beside her, his white fur streaked faintly with salt and grime from the long journey. His red eyes were ever watchful, ears twitching at the foreign sounds and smells of the bustling port. He moved with silent determination, his massive form a shield and warning all at once. People gave them a wide berth—whether for the direwolf or the cold, fierce expression on Lyarra’s face was unclear. Likely both. No one in their right mind wanted to challenge a girl with death in her eyes, a sword at her hip, a dragon under her cloak, and a direwolf at her heel.

She descended the gangplank slowly, her boots hitting the dock with a solid thud that echoed louder than it should have. Her sword hung at her hip, worn but well-kept, and her free hand brushed the hilt as a reflex, fingers curling around it for reassurance. Every movement was measured, every glance sharp. She had spent too long surviving to forget what danger looked like, and this city reeked of it. Slavers prowled the markets like wolves, their wares shackled and half-starved. Collared men and women moved in lines with eyes too dull for the living. Overseers cracked whips or shouted in clipped Valyrian that bit at her ears like curses.

The sun beat down harder here than in Westeros, pressing into her bones and drawing sweat from her skin until her cloak clung damp and heavy. But Lyarra ignored it. She had endured worse than heat. Worse than pain. The sting of the sun was nothing compared to the ache in her chest where her family should have been.

She kept her head low but her eyes high, scanning the streets ahead for shelter, or perhaps a tavern where news and a drink could be bought. Somewhere she could gather herself, rest her limbs, and plan the next step. She didn’t know where she was going yet, only that she had to keep moving. Stagnation meant death, and she wasn't ready to die. Not yet. Not while vengeance still lived in her blood.

Nira let out a soft chirp from beneath the cloak, and Lyarra's hand instinctively moved to rub the small curve of her back through the fabric. The hatchling let out a pleased trill, pressing closer, soothed. "I know, little flame," Lyarra murmured, her voice hoarse from disuse and salt air. "We'll find a place soon. Somewhere safe."

Ghost leaned into her thigh, pressing his weight against her for just a moment. Steadying. Reassuring. He had been with her through it all, her constant, her protector. And now, he watched over Nira too, accepting the dragonling as pack without hesitation. Together, the three of them were strange and broken and dangerous, a family forged not by blood, but by fire, ice, and loss.

The sun bore down on the bustling port of Astapor, heat radiating from the pale red sandstone buildings and the sun-bleached docks. Lyarra adjusted the worn cloak over her shoulders, the makeshift sling cradling Nira against her chest rustling softly with each step. The baby dragon had grown in the weeks since hatching, though she still nestled close to Lyarra like a child, violet eyes blinking sleepily as she peeked out from beneath the fabric. Ghost padded silently at her side, a silent white shadow with burning red eyes that never strayed from her.

Lyarra walked slowly, each step aching from days spent cramped below decks on the ship that had carried them from Maidenpool. She had no destination in mind, only the need to get her feet back on solid ground and find somewhere safe to rest—a place to breathe, to plan, to survive.

But then, like the pull of a thread tied to fate, her gaze landed on three ships moored side by side, their hulls proudly bearing names painted in bold golden script. Even at a distance, the letters gleamed in the sunlight as though they burned with memory. Vhagar. Meraxes. Balerion.

Lyarra froze, breath catching in her throat. The names struck her like an echo from a story her father once whispered to her beneath the godswood, like ghosts summoned from a long-lost time. Those names were not coincidence.

Her eyes drifted to the gangplank descending from Balerion, and that was when she saw them.

Two figures stood together at the end of the gangway, unmistakably twins with identical silver-white hair that shimmered like strands of light spun from the moon. Their violet eyes, luminous and intense, scanned the crowd with measured grace. There was no mistaking their lineage. Targaryens.

But it wasn’t only the hair or the eyes or the regal bearing that arrested her. It was the presence that clung to them—raw and ancient, like fire barely contained. Like prophecy made flesh.

And then she saw the dragons.

Four of them, gathered protectively around the twins like loyal familiars. Each beast was roughly the size of a large dog, with scales gleaming in hues of black, red, gold, and silver. Their wings twitched, tails flicked, and sharp eyes gleamed with uncanny understanding. One let out a low, curious chirp, and in answer, Nira stirred against Lyarra’s chest, the small dragon peeking out to see the others, letting out a soft, wondering trill.

Lyarra’s heart hammered in her chest. Her gaze remained fixed, a strange heat rising behind her eyes. Something in her knew—instinctively, undeniably—that this moment meant everything. She felt it like the pull of the moon on the tide, her path shifting. Her grief, her anger, her exile—it all quieted in their presence. Not erased, but stilled. As if recognizing not strangers, but something kindred.

Her hand went to Nira’s back, fingers stroking soothing patterns over the baby dragon’s cool scales. Ghost pressed in closer, flanking her protectively, his red eyes watching the dragons and their people. It felt like standing at the edge of a precipice she hadn’t known she was approaching.

Two men flanked the silver-haired twins. One was broad-shouldered and weathered, a sword at his side and a soldier’s caution in his step. The other, older still, leaned on a tall wooden staff, his beard long and white, his eyes steady with quiet wisdom. Westerosi, both of them.

Lyarra didn’t know what to say, nor even if she should approach. But her feet moved of their own accord. Her soul recognized something that her mind hadn’t yet named.

She took a hesitant step forward, then another, her breath shaky as her limbs trembled with both fear and hope. Nira chirped again, almost eagerly, and Ghost nudged her calf like an anchor, as if to say, You are not alone.

Lyarra stepped forward with hesitation but purpose, the air thick with heat and the smell of salt and sand. Ghost padded beside her with each step, fur bristling, red eyes alert and unblinking. The baby dragon nestled in the sling beneath her cloak chirped softly, feeling the tension in her mother. Lyarra's hand was near the hilt of her bastard sword, every muscle in her body coiled and ready to strike or flee. Her heart thundered in her chest, a ragged blend of fury, fear, and grief, each emotion fighting to surface.

As she neared the docks where the silver-haired twins and their dragons stood, one of the older men suddenly moved with surprising speed. He stepped between Lyarra and the twins, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword as he positioned himself protectively.

"That's close enough," he growled, voice gravelly and worn. His eyes darted down to Ghost, then up to meet Lyarra's. "A direwolf. House Stark. You're far from home, girl."

Lyarra’s breath hitched, a spike of rage cutting through the haze of exhaustion. Her voice was sharp and brittle, her body trembling with more than just fatigue. "And you’re not? Bear Island, right? I can hear it in your voice. A disgraced knight of the North standing guard over dragonlords in a city that sells people like cattle." Her eyes blazed with contempt. "You fit in well here."

The older man's jaw tightened. "Watch your tongue."

"Or what? You'll sell me too?" Lyarra snapped, stepping forward, hand fully gripping her sword now. Nira shifted against her chest, letting out a distressed trill, her small form pressing tighter to her mother. Ghost growled, low and steady, his muscles tense and his body pressed to Lyarra’s side.

"Jorah," one of the twins said firmly. The voice, lilting and sure, came from the woman with fire in her violet eyes. "Enough."

The name struck Lyarra like a hammer. Jorah. Jorah Mormont. She had heard that name before in hushed tones, in stories told at the fire. A traitor. A slaver. A man who had sold others for coin and fled justice.

"Jorah Mormont," she said, venom dripping from each syllable. "Of course it is. I’m not surprised to find a slaver here to buy more chains."

Jorah’s face darkened with restrained fury, but before he could speak, the white-bearded man stepped forward and placed a hand on Jorah’s arm, gently but firmly pulling him back. His eyes turned to Lyarra, calm and assessing, but kind.

"Let her speak, ser," the old man said, his voice gentle but carrying a quiet authority, like the calm in the eye of a storm.

The other twin, the one with the slightly sharper jaw and a quiet strength in her eyes, stepped forward then. She didn’t draw a weapon or raise her voice. Instead, she looked at Lyarra—really looked at her, eyes roaming over the half-healed wounds, the way she cradled her dragon protectively, the worn cloak and the haunted look in her eyes.

And Lyarra felt it.

A flicker of something she hadn’t felt since before the Red Wedding. Safety. Recognition. Belonging.

The woman’s gaze drifted to the bundle at Lyarra’s chest, where Nira peeked out, blinking with violet eyes that mirrored her own. A softness bloomed in the twin’s expression, a smile forming at the corners of her mouth—slow, gentle, and warm like sunrise over a war-torn land.

"You have a dragon," she said softly, awe threaded through her words. Then she looked back up and met Lyarra’s eyes again, unwavering. "So do we."

Her hand lifted slowly, deliberately, a gesture of peace and welcome. She didn’t reach for the dragon or for Lyarra’s weapon. She simply opened her palm, an unspoken offering of comfort.

Lyarra didn’t take it. Her hand trembled, not out of fear, but from the sheer force of everything bubbling beneath the surface. Her breath caught in her throat, and her fingers tightened around the strap of the sling as Nira chirped again, nudging into her mother’s chest. Ghost leaned against her leg like a silent sentinel, but even he had shifted—his hackles slowly smoothing, his growl replaced by a watchful stillness.

She didn’t back away.

Caught in that quiet space between the world she had lost and a new one opening before her, Lyarra stood frozen, her grief a cloak draped around her shoulders, her fury simmering beneath her skin—but in this moment, there was a hush, a stillness that whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, she was no longer alone.

~~

Astapor was too loud.

Every step through the city scraped across Lyarra's nerves like blades. The docks had been bad enough, but this—this was worse. The sun beat down like a hammer, baking the stones and reflecting off the dull red walls until everything shimmered with heat. The air was thick, a suffocating stew of sweat, blood, brine, and rotting fish that clung to her skin and crawled down her throat. The cries of merchants hawking their wares, of slavers bartering lives, of whip cracks and chained feet—all of it crashed into her in a constant, deafening wave.

Her vision blurred. Her ears rang. Voices became noise. Faces warped into shadows with eyes that lingered too long. Her breath hitched, chest tightening beneath the weight of Nira curled in the sling at her breast. The baby dragon shifted, sensing her mother’s distress, and chirped softly, but even that sound was swallowed by the cacophony around them. Her heart thudded wildly, a frantic drumbeat that only added to the dizzying pressure in her head. Her hand twitched toward the hilt of her sword.

Ghost growled low at her side, his hackles raised, every muscle in the direwolf taut and alert. His presence was grounding, solid, but even he couldn’t shield her from the overwhelming barrage of sensation.

Then—a touch.

Warm. Steady. At the nape of her neck.

Visenya.

She stepped in beside Lyarra with silent surety, her presence solid as stone. Her other hand found Lyarra's side, fingers splayed across the curve of her waist. Her thumb brushed slow, rhythmic circles through the fabric of Lyarra's clothes. No words. No questions. Just there .

Lyarra didn’t think. She just leaned into the touch, into the heat of her. Into the grounding weight of someone who understood what it meant to feel like a storm inside your own skin. Someone who didn’t demand answers or explanations. Someone who simply was .

Ahead, Daenerys noticed the shift. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted the way several merchants leered too long at Lyarra—at the sling, at the strange sight of the violet-eyed girl with a direwolf and a baby dragon. Dany didn’t speak. She just moved—graceful and deliberate, stepping between Lyarra and the worst of the crowd. Her presence wasn’t threatening, not exactly, but it radiated a quiet warning:

Not yours. Don’t look.

Nira chirped again, a soft, high note of concern. She pressed her tiny snout against Lyarra’s chest and fluttered her wings as if trying to ward off the rising panic. Her warmth was a balm, but it was Visenya’s hands that kept Lyarra from unraveling. One hand at her waist, the other at her neck, both firm and possessive, like she dared the world to challenge her claim.

Around them, the other dragons reacted.

Drakarion came first, wings half-spread in protective posture, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air. Sylveris and Aenryx flanked the sides, sleek bodies coiling like serpents ready to strike. Vaelyx darted ahead, tail lashing, teeth bared, eyes sharp as razors. Ghost growled again, low and threatening, but didn’t move to attack—he simply stood his ground, brushing his side against Lyarra’s leg as if reminding her that he was there.

A small island of stillness formed around them—a pocket of air untouched by the chaos of the city. No one dared step into that space, not with four dragons and a direwolf forming a living barrier.

Visenya's grip tightened just slightly, her fingers pressing into Lyarra’s waist with quiet strength. There was something possessive in her hold, something that said mine without needing words. But it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t a cage. It was shelter. It was safety.

And Lyarra—overstimulated, overwhelmed, her fury close to the surface—found she didn’t hate it.

She leaned in closer.

Her body sagged slightly, tension easing for the first time in what felt like hours.

She breathed.

The noise of Astapor still rang in Lyarra’s ears, like echoes bouncing off the inside of her skull. Every footstep felt heavier than the last, her limbs aching with tension she hadn't realized she was carrying. But the worst of it began to fade as they turned down a quieter street, one that curved alongside the edge of a crumbling garden wall overtaken by creeping ivy and faded carvings.

There, beneath a leaning tree with broad, fan-shaped leaves, a patch of shade offered respite from the relentless sun. The air was cooler here, the breeze whispering through the branches. The group came to a stop beneath its canopy.

Visenya’s hand never left her waist.

Even as they walked, even with the watchful eyes of citizens and guards trailing their every step, that warm, grounding touch remained constant. It was a small anchor in the rising tide of noise and emotion. Lyarra hadn’t realized just how tightly wound she’d been until they finally paused and she could breathe again. The moment they stopped moving, her knees wobbled as if her bones remembered how to ache.

Visenya was there in an instant, guiding her down to sit on the cool stone ledge beneath the tree. Her hand only released Lyarra once she was safely seated—and even then, she remained close, settling on Lyarra’s left side with the quiet protectiveness of a blade still drawn but sheathed.

Daenerys didn’t say a word. She simply moved to Lyarra’s right and sat beside her, her presence gentle. She pressed her weight lightly against her, not pushing, just leaning enough to let Lyarra feel her there.

It wasn’t a heavy touch. Just enough to be felt . Just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.

The shade offered relief. The sounds of the city still loomed in the distance—bells ringing, distant shouts, and the dull thump of ships rocking against worn wooden posts—but here, beneath the rustling leaves, it all felt a little more distant. A little less hostile.

Nira shifted in her sling, letting out a soft warble, her tiny head peeking out from the folds of cloth. She nudged upward, brushing her snout gently beneath Lyarra’s chin. Lyarra exhaled slowly, one hand coming to cradle the small dragon protectively.

Then Ghost stepped forward.

He had been ever-vigilant, always placing himself between Lyarra and potential danger. His red eyes scanned every alley, every passerby. But now, his posture eased. He padded forward on silent paws and—to Lyarra’s surprise—rested his heavy head on Daenerys’s knee.

Daenerys blinked, slightly startled, then slowly reached out. Her fingers brushed gently over his thick white fur, tentative at first, then more certain as Ghost made no move to pull away. She stroked him with slow, calming motions, her hand moving in long, deliberate arcs. Ghost's eyes drifted half-closed, his body relaxing further under her touch. His tail gave a slow, deliberate wag—just once, then again—settling into a quiet rhythm that spoke of contentment.

Lyarra watched through the shield of her fingers, her head bowed. Her shoulders trembled faintly, though whether from exhaustion or the quiet swell of emotion she couldn’t say. She blinked once, then again, trying to process what she was seeing.

"He doesn’t like people," she murmured, voice hoarse and disbelieving.

Daenerys didn’t look away from Ghost. Her voice was quiet, steady. "I know."

That was it. No questions. No praise. No wonder.

Just understanding.

There was nothing more to say.

But something shifted in the quiet.

It wasn’t a grand revelation or a flood of emotion. It was something smaller. Softer. Like the gentle ripple of wind across still water. Lyarra let her gaze shift between the two women at her sides, the warmth of their presence pressing in from both sides, steady and unyielding.

Not enough to be called peace. Not yet. But something closer.

And in Lyarra’s tired eyes, worn raw by grief and fury, there flickered the first ember of trust.

A small flame.

But growing.

After their rest, they rose again.

Lyarra felt steadier. Not whole—not even close—but she could breathe without her chest rattling, and her limbs no longer shook beneath her. The brief pause in the shade, between two sisters who didn’t press her for anything, had steadied something in her. She adjusted the sling holding Nira and gave the baby dragon a soft scratch under the chin, which earned her a contented chirp and a puff of warm breath. Ghost stood at her side as always, watching the world with sharp eyes but a quieter energy now, tail occasionally swaying like a banner in a breeze. The heat, the noise, the press of Astapor still loomed, but for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was drowning in it.

They resumed walking.

It made for a strange procession. A trio of young women with violet eyes and quiet fire in their steps: Lyarra, still wrapped in the shroud of grief but upright and walking with purpose; Daenerys, regal and composed with her silver hair catching the light like strands of starlight; and Visenya, warrior-strong with her gaze sharp and protective, never straying far from Lyarra's side. Every few steps, her hand would brush against Lyarra’s back or arm—a gentle check-in, an anchor.

Four dragons stalked around them, their wings half-folded as they moved with unnerving grace and the silent coordination of a seasoned pack. Drakarion led the way, his head low, tail swaying with purpose, eyes sweeping the road like a scouting wolf. Sylveris and Aenryx flanked the group, their bodies sleek and sinuous, tails flicking with the occasional twitch of amusement or curiosity. Vaelyx lagged behind now and then, pouncing on shadows or chittering at flapping laundry strung between buildings. When children peeked from behind doorways to watch, Vaelyx tilted his head and snorted smoke in greeting, sending them giggling back into hiding.

And then there was Nira.

Tucked against Lyarra's chest, nestled in the sling, the baby dragon peered out at the world with wide, gleaming eyes, her head tracking every sound and flash of motion with eager fascination. Her small wings fluttered occasionally, and every so often she chirped—a sweet, inquisitive sound. One of the older dragons would croon back in response, and more than once, Aenryx drifted a little closer to peer down at her like a curious older sibling. There was no tension among them. Only recognition.

Ghost walked in perfect silence, close enough that his fur brushed Lyarra's leg with each step. He didn’t growl. He didn’t snap. But no one doubted the danger in his step. His red eyes tracked every passerby with the cold calculation of a predator, and the crowd gave him a wide berth. Occasionally, he would glance at Nira or the dragons—acknowledging them, never alarmed. Just aware.

Flanking the group were their unlikely guards: Jorah Mormont, tense and watchful, his eyes flicking between the crowd and the buildings above as if waiting for a crossbow bolt to sing; Arstan Whitebeard, calm and measured, always two steps behind Daenerys with the serenity of a man who had seen too many wars; and Belwas, ever casual in his swagger, humming to himself and cracking his knuckles every so often just to make the nearby crowd flinch. He winked at children. He glared at slavers. He looked completely at home in chaos.

The people of Astapor stared.

Some in awe. Some in confusion. Many in fear. They murmured behind hands, whispered in tongues old and new, wondering who this third violet-eyed girl could be, what it meant for the silver-haired queens to walk at her side. What it meant that the beasts did not growl at her, that she carried one of her own.

No one dared approach.

It was a parade of contradictions—ice and fire, power and sorrow, old blood and new fury. Dragons moved like shadows. A direwolf moved like death. And at the heart of it walked a girl with a baby dragon and a ghost-white beast, caught between who she had been and who she might become. Her grief clung to her like a second skin, her fury barely beneath the surface, but for the first time, it did not consume her.

And beside her, two sisters who felt like storm and flame, like sky and fire.

And for the first time since the Red Wedding, Lyarra didn’t feel completely alone.

For the first time, she felt like she was walking toward something—not just running from what had been lost.

Notes:

Wooo! The meeting!

Chapter 11: XI

Summary:

The Plaza of Pride, a Dragon's warmth and a Wolf finds a new pack.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XI

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

They reached the Plaza of Pride just as the sun burned high above the rooftops, washing the red bricks in shimmering waves of heat.

The square was vast, flanked by colonnades and statues of ancient Ghiscar warlords, now weathered and crumbling. In the center stood the fountain—a red-brick monstrosity reeking of brimstone. Yellow water poured from the heavy bronze breasts of a harpy statue that loomed twenty feet high. Her face was a woman's, though far from gentle: gilded hair framed ivory eyes and a mouth lined with pointed ivory teeth. She had bat-like wings in place of arms, eagle talons for legs, and a scorpion's curled tail rising behind her. The harpy of Ghis.

It stood as a twisted symbol of pride and domination, and Lyarra hated it the moment she saw it.

They approached in silence, flanked by Jorah, Arstan, and Belwas, with dragons pacing on either side and Ghost walking a half-step ahead, his posture alert. Nira stirred in the sling at Lyarra’s chest, letting out a low trill as they drew closer.

In formation before the fountain stood a century of Unsullied.

Eighty men. Silent. Unmoving. Unblinking.

Lyarra felt the wrongness of it in her bones. She shifted slightly, hand brushing Ghost’s fur. These weren’t soldiers. They were ghosts made of flesh.

A voice broke the quiet.

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” said the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz, gesturing dismissively at Daenerys as he addressed the slave girl beside him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

His Valyrian was thick with the guttural drawl of Ghis and peppered with slaver slang. Visenya's eyes narrowed, but her posture never changed—a deliberate stillness honed by years of restraint.

Dany, for her part, only smiled blankly at the translator, a young girl with golden eyes and the soft, round features of Naath. She couldn’t have been more than twelve.

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” the girl said, her voice melodic and oddly formal in the Common Tongue.

Lyarra watched the girl with a storm brewing behind her eyes. She understood more than she let on—Maester Luwin had tutored her well, and she’d spent hours with dusty Valyrian histories and scrolls. She couldn't keep up with everything said, but she understood enough to feel the disgust curling inside her.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Daenerys replied in an even tone.

It had been Visenya’s idea that she speak only the Common Tongue while in Astapor, so as to appear dependent on translators. Visenya stood beside her like a sword-arm—silent, and deadly—but every inch a twin in purpose and strength.

Lyarra stood behind them both, in the role of companion and bodyguard, her hand resting loosely on the hilt of her blade. Her eyes never left the slavers.

“Tell me of their training,” Daenerys added.

The slave girl bowed her head and turned to Kraznys.

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” she said dutifully. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

The sun beat down mercilessly upon the Plaza of Pride, but Visenya felt the cold in her bones.

She had stood in the bloodied mud of battlefields, walked among corpses cooling after slaughter. But something about the quiet horror of the Unsullied unnerved her in a way no battlefield ever had. It wasn’t the blood, or the threat of death—those were familiar. It was the silence. The utter, soul-deep stillness of the eighty men lined in perfect formation before the monstrous fountain. They were not men. They were statues with breath. They stood so perfectly still, with nothing behind their eyes but obedience. No pride. No fear. No humanity.

Just silence.

And that silence echoed louder than the clash of swords.

Visenya watched the small translator girl speak, her voice soft and practiced as she repeated the slaver’s twisted boasts in the Common Tongue. She was no older than twelve, yet already her hands moved like someone used to flinching, her speech measured like someone trained not to anger. Bruises marked her arms, half-hidden by thin fabric, and her eyes darted constantly to the whip Kraznys mo Nakloz held like a scepter of power.

“They begin their training at five,” the girl recited. “Only one in three survives it.”

Visenya felt the tension ripple through the line of women beside her. She heard the slow breath Daenerys drew in, tightly controlled. Lyarra, standing slightly behind, stiffened like drawn wire. Visenya could feel it coming off her in waves—that grief, that fury, that wild edge she so carefully walked. The pain of losing everything. The ache of still having to go on.

Her own fingers brushed against the hilt of Dark Sister. It was instinct, muscle memory born from war and old, buried rage. She didn’t draw it. Not yet.

Kraznys continued, smug and oblivious, speaking of how the Unsullied had stood for a full day and night without food or water. He described it as proof of loyalty, of obedience, of courage.

Arstan Whitebeard’s voice cut through the heat and stench like a blade through silk. “I call that madness, not courage.”

Visenya nearly smiled. The old man had a quiet strength. He didn’t waste words, and when he spoke, he spoke from a place of principle. Of honor. In another life, she might have liked him. Even now, she respected him.

But her fury was rising.

She did not like slavers. She hated the mask they wore, pretending that domination was order, that cruelty was civilization. Everything about Astapor reeked. The bricks stank of rot and old blood, and even the sunlight felt like it scalded her skin.

Kraznys sneered, called it obedience, called it discipline.

“Sheep are obedient,” Arstan said dryly, and Lyarra let out a sharp breath beside her—a sound like a laugh, but too bitter to be humor. Visenya didn’t turn to look, but she felt the girl vibrating with rage.

Then came the cutting.

Kraznys raised his whip and lashed a copper-cheeked man across the face, drawing blood. The man blinked. Nothing more. Daenerys tensed. Visenya saw the twitch in her sister’s jaw, the slight parting of her lips. Lyarra made a sound in her throat, low and raw, and Ghost, ever silent, let out a rumble that echoed faintly through the square.

And then another.

The next Unsullied was young, pale, with the features of Lys. Kraznys took his blade and sliced the youth’s chest, then jabbed upward beneath the nipple, slowly working the steel until the flesh hung by a thread. Blood ran down his chest like wine from a cracked cask. Still, the eunuch did not move.

“They feel no pain,” Kraznys declared.

It took every ounce of restraint Visenya had not to react. Not to let her fire crackle in the air, not to strike him where he stood. Her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached.

Lyarra, though she said nothing, was shaking. Not with fear. With the barely-contained rage of a wolf in a cage.

Visenya remembered what that felt like. The helpless fury that came when someone tore your world apart and left you standing in the wreckage. She remembered the empty corridors of Hogwarts after Sirius fell. The Ministry's betrayal. The days spent drifting like smoke.

These men weren’t brave. They were broken.

Daenerys asked the questions they needed. She played the part, calm and collected, letting Kraznys believe she was soft. Visenya knew better. She had seen her sister wreathed in fire.

The wine of courage. Nightshade. Lotus root. Larva. Poison.

Kraznys listed it all like a recipe for perfection.

Visenya wanted to burn his tongue from his mouth.

When he said they had no names, she almost staggered. That was the final cruelty. The removal of identity. To deny them the right to even be remembered.

“They have no names?” Daenerys asked quietly.

“It is so, Your Grace.”

Visenya closed her eyes for a heartbeat, breathing deep. Rage was easy. Too easy. But not yet. Not here.

No names. No pain. No choice. No past. No mercy.

And they were here to buy these boys.

These weapons.

Because they had to. For what came next.

But Visenya swore to herself, right then, that when the fire came to Astapor—when the chains were broken and the bricks bled—she would find every man who had ever raised a whip, and show them what fear felt like.

Kraznys stopped before a towering Unsullied with copper skin and sharp eyes, flicking his lash lazily toward the small bronze disk that hung from the man's swordbelt.

"There is his name," the slaver sneered. "Ask the whore of Westeros whether she can read Ghiscari glyphs."

Daenerys kept her chin high. "I cannot," she admitted evenly, her voice calm, almost indifferent.

The slaver turned to the Unsullied. "What is your name?"

"This one's name is Red Flea, your worship."

The translator relayed the exchange in the Common Tongue.

"And yesterday, what was it?"

"Black Rat, your worship."

"The day before that?"

"Brown Flea, your worship."

"Before that?"

"This one does not recall, your worship. Blue Toad, perhaps. Or Blue Worm."

Kraznys barked a laugh. "Tell her all their names are such. It reminds them they are vermin. The name disks are thrown into a cask at the end of each day, drawn again each morning."

Visenya’s knuckles whitened at her side. Lyarra’s breath came harder, a slow furnace. Every word this man spoke was a provocation, every casual cruelty a spark falling on kindling.

“More madness,” said Arstan. “How can any man possibly remember a new name each day?”

“Those who cannot are culled in training,” came the girl’s quiet answer. “Along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in darkness, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Dany turned quickly, hiding the twist of her mouth until she heard the translation. She schooled her features and asked, “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must find a wailing newborn at the slave marts and kill it before the mother’s eyes. In this way, we ensure no weakness remains.”

Dany felt lightheaded. She blamed the heat.

“You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

Kraznys laughed aloud. “Tell her the mark is for the child’s owner, not the mother. Unsullied are not permitted to steal.” He twitched his whip again. “Few fail that test. The dogs are harder for them. We give each boy a puppy on the day of his cutting. After a year, he must strangle it. Those who cannot are killed and fed to the dogs. A strong lesson.”

Arstan’s staff beat a rhythm against the bricks. Tap. Tap. Tap. Dany saw the way he looked away, as though even he could not bear to look at the slaver a moment longer.

Daenerys took a breath. “The Good Master has said the eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh,” she said. “But if an enemy offered them freedom for betrayal?”

“They would kill him and bring you his head,” the girl translated. “They do not hoard silver. They do not dream. They are only soldiers.”

Dany inclined her head. “It is soldiers I need.”

“Then it is well you came to Astapor. How many does she wish to buy?”

“How many do you have to sell?”

“Eight thousand, fully trained,” Kraznys boasted. “We sell by the unit—by the thousand or the century. No more sales by the ten. That was folly. When mixed with lesser slaves or freemen, they forget what they are.”

Dany gave no outward reaction, even as fury boiled beneath her skin.

“These wonders are not cheap. In Yunkai or Meereen, you might buy sword arms for less than their blades. But the Unsullied are like Valyrian steel. Folded. Hammered. Stronger than any metal.”

“I know of Valyrian steel,” said Dany. “Do the Unsullied have their own officers?”

“You must appoint your own. We train them to obey, not to think. If you want cleverness, buy scribes.”

“And their gear?”

“Sword, shield, spear, sandals, tunic. And the spiked caps. They will wear other armor, but you must provide it.”

She had no more questions. She turned to Arstan. “You have lived long. What say you?”

He did not hesitate. “I say no, Your Grace.”

“Why?” she asked.

He spoke clearly. “There have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. Both old gods and new deem slavery evil. If you land with a slave army, many will oppose you for that alone. It will wound your cause, and the honor of House Targaryen.”

“Yet I need an army,” Dany said. “Joffrey will not surrender politely.”

“When you raise your banner, half of Westeros will follow,” Arstan promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still loved.”

“And my father?” Dany asked.

The old man paused. “He gave many years of peace.”

“You believe I do not need slaves?”

“You do not. Magister Illyrio can protect you until your dragons grow. He can send envoys to sound out support.”

“To those same lords who bent the knee to Robert?”

“Even they may long for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” Dany echoed, lips tight.

She turned to the slave girl. “I must consider carefully.”

Kraznys shrugged. “Tell her to be quick. A corsair king saw these same Unsullied three days ago.”

“The corsair wanted only a hundred,” the slave girl corrected softly.

He struck her with the whip handle. “Corsairs are liars. Tell her he will take them all.”

Dany nodded, not acknowledging the lie. “Remind your master who I am. I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. My blood is the blood of Valyria.”

Kraznys grunted. “Ghis ruled empires when Valyria still fucked sheep. We are sons of the harpy.” He gave a shrug. “My tongue is wasted wagging at women. East or west, they cannot decide without flattery, food, and sweetmeats.”

He leered. “Tell her if she wants a guide to our city, Kraznys mo Nakloz will gladly serve. And service her, if she is more woman than she looks.”

The girl translated, gently rephrasing his filth.

“I will feed her jellied dog brains, octopus stew, unborn puppy.”

“Many delicacies await, Your Grace.”

“Tell her of the glowing pyramids, the lanterns at dusk,” he added. “Tell her I’ll lick honey from her breasts. Or she may lick mine, if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at night, Your Grace,” said the girl with a trembling voice. “There are lanterns and pleasure barges with music and wine.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Arstan Whitebeard’s staff echoed with slow fury. Dany forced a smile, every muscle tight.

“I thank the Good Master for his offer. But I must return to my ship and consider.”

~

The walk back to the ship was made in silence.

The sun dipped lower with every step, its light turning gold and then amber as afternoon bled into dusk. The dusty red bricks of Astapor were softened by shadow, but the air still felt thick with heat, cruelty, and old blood. The city’s noise faded behind them, yet its weight remained, clinging to their shoulders like a second skin.

Even the dragons were subdued.

Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx flew low and close, their wings tucked in, heads lowered, tails swaying with an uneasy rhythm. They were silent, save for the occasional soft trill or rustle of wing. They were creatures of storm and fire, but they were also bound to their mothers by instinct and bond, and they felt their mothers' fury like a storm building beneath still waters.

Ghost kept close to Lyarra’s side, his steps slow and deliberate. The ever-watchful direwolf seemed to absorb her exhaustion, mirroring her frayed movements. Every sound made her flinch, her shoulders drawn tight, like a bow on the verge of snapping.

When they reached the ship, the gangplank creaked under their boots. The crew parted for them without words. Something in their expressions said they, too, felt the change.

Once aboard, Daenerys turned to the three men who had followed them.

"Thank you. That will be all for today," she said, voice tight but calm.

Jorah gave a silent nod. Arstan inclined his head. Belwas grumbled something under his breath but obeyed.

Visenya turned to Lyarra. "Come with us."

There was no question in her voice. Just invitation.

Lyarra followed them below deck into the twins' shared quarters.

As soon as the door shut behind them, the air shifted.

The four dragons moved with a grace and certainty that suggested this space was theirs. They made no sound of greeting, but immediately sought their mothers. Drakarion draped his long body along Visenya’s side, nuzzling beneath her arm, rumbling deep in his chest. Sylveris pressed her snout to Daenerys’ belly, chuffing softly and curling around her legs like a great silver serpent.

Vaelyx and Aenryx twined around each other before seeking out Lyarra. Aenryx stepped close to Ghost, the two beasts exchanging a long, silent look before Ghost flicked his ears and lay down, uncurling just enough to allow Aenryx to settle beside him.

Lyarra hesitated. Her hands hovered at the sling across her chest, trembling faintly.

Then, slowly, she unfastened the straps and eased Nira from the folds. The baby dragon stretched with a delicate chirp, blinking wide, shining eyes. She flapped her tiny wings and climbed to Lyarra’s shoulder before leaping down to the floor.

The older dragons froze.

For a heartbeat, Lyarra held her breath.

Then Sylveris crooned softly and lowered her head, sniffing at the hatchling with gentle curiosity. Drakarion let out a quiet, amused huff and nudged Nira with the tip of his snout, making the baby squeak and bat at him playfully with her claws. Vaelyx tilted his head, crouching low so she could climb up his foreleg.

All of them accepted her without question.

Even Ghost watched the play with tolerant, golden eyes, thumping his tail once against the floorboards.

In this shared space, among fire and fur and scales, the three young women let their masks slip.

Visenya’s breath came sharp and ragged as she paced the room once, then turned. “That city is poison,” she spat. “Every brick, every chain, every man with a whip.”

Daenerys slumped onto a low bench, one hand tangled in Sylveris’ frill. “I hate it,” she whispered. “I hate needing them. I hate that this is what we’re forced to choose.”

Lyarra stood in the middle of the room, staring down at Nira as the baby dragon climbed a coil of Vaelyx’s tail. Her fingers were curled into fists, her breathing shallow.

“They treat people like vermin,” she said. Her voice cracked. “They give them numbers and disks and no names. No names. Like they don’t even deserve to be remembered."

Her voice trembled with the fury of something broken and raw.

"We don’t have a choice,” Daenerys said again, but there was no conviction in it.

Visenya stepped close, her eyes dark and burning. “No good choices. But we can choose to make it right after.”

Lyarra shook her head. “The North would follow me,” she murmured. “If I raised the banners, if I swore vengeance for the Red Wedding. But they’re scattered. Fractured. It would take too long.”

And she was so tired.

She hadn’t slept since before the blood began to fall like rain at the Twins. Every moment since had been spent running, surviving, grieving. She hadn’t even had time to bury her kin. She’d fled the moment the betrayal began, blood still wet on the stones, her family's screams still echoing in her ears. There had been no time for mourning, only survival. No graves, no goodbyes, just the howling emptiness of everything lost. She’d escaped death. She’d crossed the sea. She was only now realizing how close to breaking she truly was.

Her breathing hitched. Her hands trembled. But before she could collapse into that helpless, bitter place...

Visenya and Daenerys were there.

Their arms wrapped around her. One pair fierce, solid, unyielding. The other soft, gentle, grounding. Lyarra didn’t fight it.

She melted into them, her face buried against Visenya’s shoulder, Daenerys’ hand threading through her hair. They didn’t speak. They just held her.

Held each other.

The dragons lay curled together now, protective, calm. Nira snuggled between Drakarion and Sylveris, safe. Ghost dozed with his head resting on his paws, eyes half-lidded.

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Lyarra felt something crack beneath the weight.

Not her mind.

Not her spirit.

Just the walls she’d wrapped around herself.

And in their place, the beginnings of healing.

Of something new.

The cabin was quiet, the air heavy with the lingering scent of sea salt, dragon musk, and faint traces of smoke.

The three women sat on the narrow bed, shoulders touching. Lyarra was in the middle, flanked on either side by Visenya and Daenerys. The bed creaked softly beneath them, the gentle rocking of the ship keeping a slow, comforting rhythm.

The dragons had all settled together in one large, tangled mass of wings and scales near the far end of the cabin. Drakarion lay with his tail draped across Sylveris, his head nestled between Aenryx and Vaelyx. Nira was tucked safely in the crook of Ghost's massive forepaws, her tiny frame almost lost in the thick white fur, her small chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. Ghost lay with his body curled protectively around the baby dragon and the others, his fur brushing against scales with no tension between them. The five dragons and the direwolf formed a strange but peaceful circle, unified in warmth and kinship.

Lyarra's fingers twitched in her lap.

"We need the Unsullied," Daenerys said at last, voice quiet but certain.

Visenya's brow was furrowed, her thumb tracing slow circles against Lyarra's back. "We do," she agreed. "But they’ll ask for something impossible."

Lyarra nodded, her voice flat. "They’re going to want a dragon."

The silence that followed that was leaden.

Daenerys’ jaw tensed. Visenya’s hand stilled.

"They won’t get one," Visenya said. Her voice left no room for argument.

Daenerys nodded slowly. "No. They’re our children."

Lyarra glanced toward the floor, biting the inside of her cheek. The weight of the twins beside her was grounding, but she still felt like she existed at a slight angle to them. They moved in harmony, spoke in rhythm. When their eyes met, there was an intensity that made her chest ache with something she couldn’t name. When Daenerys’ fingers brushed Visenya’s, they lingered. When Visenya looked at Dany, it was with a tenderness that almost burned.

And Lyarra sat between them, welcome but still apart.

Still, they included her. Visenya’s arm rested behind her shoulders, Daenerys’ thigh pressed against hers. She could feel the heat of them, the strength.

"Then what do we do?" she asked, forcing herself to meet their eyes.

Daenerys exhaled slowly, then sat straighter. "We give them what they ask for."

Lyarra blinked. "You just said we wouldn’t—"

"We won’t," Daenerys interrupted. Her eyes glinted like molten gold in the low lantern light. "But we let them believe we will. We offer them a dragon in exchange for all eight thousand Unsullied and those in training."

Visenya's eyes narrowed. Then her lips curled into something between admiration and something darker.

"And then?"

"And then," Daenerys said softly, "our child gives them fire."

The silence that followed was a different kind. Not doubt. Not fear.

Understanding.

Visenya leaned forward, her arm brushing Lyarra’s as she reached to take Daenerys' hand, squeezing it once before letting go. The gesture was casual, practiced, yet intimate.

Lyarra tried not to stare.

"It’s dangerous," she said instead. "You’ll be surrounded. What if they try to take you hostage? Or worse?"

"They’ll expect me to be meek," Daenerys replied. "They won’t see the danger until it’s too late."

Visenya snorted. "Let them think us weak. Their mistake."

Lyarra let out a slow breath, the corners of her lips tugging into the faintest smile.

Their plan was madness.

But it just might work.

She glanced between the two sisters. They were fire and fury, storm and steel. And for the first time in a long while, Lyarra felt like maybe she belonged near that flame.

Even if sometimes, she still feared being burned.

The plan had been made. The fire was lit. There was nothing more to do tonight but rest.

The tension of the day still clung to the corners of the room like soot after a blaze, but it no longer pressed down with the same weight. Decisions had been made. Paths chosen. The fire in their chests still burned, but now it was tempered by exhaustion, and the tender ache of needing something more than resolve.

Lyarra let out a long yawn, blinking slowly as her shoulders slumped. Her body felt like it had been carved from stone, heavy with days of tension, limbs aching with the sort of bone-deep exhaustion that came only after weeks of running, surviving, grieving. There were shadows under her eyes and a rawness in her chest that no words could reach. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm and murmured, "Where am I sleeping?" Her voice was thick with fatigue, softened by something almost vulnerable.

Visenya glanced at Daenerys. No words passed between them, just a flicker of shared thought in their eyes, a silent understanding deeper than speech.

Daenerys nodded once.

Visenya turned back to Lyarra with a small, casual shrug. "Here," she said simply. "You should stay. Ghost and Nira clearly approve."

Lyarra looked to the corner where the dragons and direwolf were still nestled in their strange, peaceful heap of limbs and scales and fur. All five dragons, from proud Drakarion to playful Vaelyx, were curled around one another, warmth and trust radiating from them. In the center, nestled between Ghost’s great paws, was little Nira, her tiny body twitching with dreams, wings tucked close to her sides. Ghost lay relaxed, utterly at peace in a way he only ever was in Lyarra's presence, and now—strangely—in theirs.

She hesitated for a moment, caught between pride and longing, between the instinct to keep her distance and the aching desire to belong somewhere, to someone. A home. A pack. A place to exhale.

Then she nodded.

Daenerys had already moved to one of the drawers beneath the bunk and was rifling through it with quiet purpose. She withdrew a set of soft sleeping clothes—a tunic and loose pants—and handed them over with a small smile. "These should fit. We’re close enough. I think you and I are about the same size, though Visenya’s legs are longer."

Visenya gave a wry smile at the jab, already pulling off her tunic with the casual ease of someone long past modesty. There was no hesitation between the sisters. Their movements were fluid, relaxed, full of the quiet intimacy that only years of unshakable trust could shape. Daenerys slipped her braid free, her silver hair cascading down her back like moonlight. Her shift fell over her shoulders as she turned, her movements languid, her eyes occasionally drifting to her sister with unguarded affection.

Visenya yawned and stretched like a cat, every line of her body unapologetic and sure. The muscles in her arms and back shifted under pale skin marked by faint scars—a map of battles won and pain endured. Her strength was quiet, but undeniable, and Lyarra found herself staring for a moment too long before quickly turning away, heart thudding with something she didn’t fully understand.

She changed quickly, clumsy fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar softness. The tunic smelled of herbs and dragon musk and something warmer she couldn’t name—something that smelled like safety. Like belonging.

When she turned back, the bed was already half-filled. Daenerys lay beneath the covers, her hair a pale spill on the pillow, one hand propped under her cheek. Visenya sat on the edge, waiting, braid draped over one shoulder, her eyes meeting Lyarra's with quiet expectation.

Lyarra hovered, uncertain.

Then she was drawn in.

Visenya's arm came around her, strong and sure, pulling her into the narrow space between them with a tenderness that stole the breath from her lungs. Daenerys shifted close at once, her leg tangling with Lyarra's beneath the blanket, her hand smoothing lightly across Lyarra’s arm as if she’d done it a thousand times.

The warmth of them seeped into her. The scent of skin and hair and breath curled around her like a cocoon.

Lyarra had never been touched like this before.

Not gently. Not without purpose. Not like she was wanted.

Her instinct was to pull back. To shield herself. To stay alert.

But they didn’t just let her stay.

They welcomed her.

Visenya brushed a strand of hair behind Lyarra’s ear with reverent fingers, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Daenerys leaned in until her forehead rested lightly against Lyarra’s shoulder. They were wrapped around her, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat. No space left between them.

Their desire was a quiet pulse beneath it all—the lingering glances, the shared heat, the way Daenerys’ thumb traced circles on Lyarra’s wrist without thought. It was intimate. Deep. And unfamiliar.

Lyarra didn’t know how to hold herself. Her arms hovered, her legs stiff.

But then Visenya shifted closer behind her, curling her body to match Lyarra’s shape, her breath warm against her neck. Daenerys let her fingers slide lower to gently hold Lyarra’s hand, thumb stroking over her knuckles in soft reassurance.

Lyarra let go.

Her body sank into theirs. Their warmth. Their strength.

She had never known closeness that asked nothing of her. Never known touch that didn’t hurt. Never known what it was to be surrounded and still feel free.

The dragons murmured in their sleep. Ghost huffed a breath and settled deeper into the pile. Nira chirped once, muffled by fur.

Lyarra’s chest loosened. Her jaw unclenched. Her heartbeat slowed.

The heat of Daenerys at her side. The fierce comfort of Visenya at her back. The unspoken promise that she wasn’t alone anymore.

She exhaled slowly, her eyes fluttering shut.

For the first time since the Twins, since blood spilled and kin fell and her world was torn apart, Lyarra felt safe.

And sleep found her within heartbeats, nestled between flame and storm, cradled in the warmth of something dangerously close to love.

~

Night blanketed the ship with silence, broken only by the soft breathing of dragons and the quiet lapping of waves against the hull. The world outside seemed far away, blurred by the sway of the sea and the cocoon of warmth that wrapped around the small cabin.

The air inside was thick with comfort and closeness, heavy with the mingled scents of fur, scale, sweat, and skin. In the heart of the narrow bed, Lyarra lay cradled between fire and storm. Her arms wrapped protectively around Daenerys, who curled tightly against her chest, face pressed into the hollow of her neck, her breath warm against bare skin. Visenya was pressed firmly against Lyarra’s back, her long limbs tangled through both their bodies, her arm draped low and sure across their waists like a band of silk-wrapped steel.

Their legs were an intricate weave beneath the covers, bare skin brushing with every breath, every shift. It was an intimacy Lyarra had never known. No armor. No space. No expectation. Only warmth and the silent promise of safety.

Ghost and the dragons lay sprawled in a tangled heap nearby. The massive direwolf snored softly, his white fur gently rising and falling. Nira was nestled securely in the crook of one of Ghost's legs, her small form radiating gentle heat as she dreamed, tiny wings fluttering. The other dragons, still young but powerful, shifted and huffed, their presence a quiet backdrop of trust and shared kinship.

But peace did not reach Daenerys.

In her dream, the sky screamed.

A city—unfamiliar yet painfully known—was devoured by flame. Towers crumbled, streets split, ash rained like snow, thick enough to choke the sky. The air was dense with smoke, with despair. The dead were burned where they stood, their outlines ghostly shadows left behind. Dragons shrieked overhead, not in triumph but in fury, and beneath them wolves howled, their cries laced with grief and rage.

Daenerys trembled.

Lyarra stirred at once, instinct overriding sleep. She tightened her hold, pulling Daenerys closer, both protective and desperate. One hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, her fingers tangling in silver-gold hair. The other held her hip with a strength that bordered on fierce. Her nose pressed into Daenerys' temple as she murmured, "You're safe. I've got you. I've got you."

Daenerys whimpered, her body taut with remembered fire. She clung to Lyarra with quiet desperation, her fingers curled into the fabric of her tunic like a lifeline, like she could climb into her and escape the nightmare.

Behind them, Visenya stirred. The moment her twin shuddered, her body moved like it had been waiting. She slid her arm more securely around both of them, her hand resting low over Daenerys' abdomen as she shifted their weight, rolling them just enough to let her curve around them. Her presence was not just comforting—it was claiming.

She pressed her lips against the crown of Daenerys’ head and whispered something in High Valyrian, voice low and reverent, like a prayer. The language flowed like water from her mouth—intimate, familiar.

Lyarra didn’t catch every word, but she knew enough. She’d studied Valyrian as a girl, drawn to the language's ancient weight and mythic cadence. Though she couldn’t speak it fluently, the meaning in Visenya’s words rang clear in her chest: You are not alone. We are here.

Daenerys’ trembling began to ebb. Her breath slowed, no longer shuddering but soft and steady. Her lips brushed against Lyarra’s collarbone, her nose nuzzling close as she buried herself deeper in the embrace.

Lyarra lay still, blinking into the dark, heart pounding in her ribs. She had never held someone like this. Had never been held like this. The tenderness of it was overwhelming.

She had grown up in shadows and silence, in cold stone and colder expectations. She had learned to survive, not to be soft. Never to trust. Never to want.

And yet here she was, lying between two women who burned like stars and loved like a storm. Their affection was effortless, honest, and fierce. She could feel it in the way Daenerys trembled into her, and the way Visenya grounded them both with quiet strength.

Their love for each other was palpable. Every glance, every breath, every touch carried its echo. And yet, somehow, impossibly, there was space for Lyarra too.

Visenya's hand slid up her side with a touch that lingered, comforting and just shy of reverent. Daenerys shifted slightly, pressing her lips in a silent thank you to Lyarra’s skin.

Lyarra's throat tightened.

She had not known she wanted this.

To be seen. To be wanted. To be held like she mattered.

The heat between them was more than physical. It was something blooming in the dark, shy and hungry and terrifyingly real. It pulled at the frayed edges of Lyarra’s soul, gently stitching them back together with each heartbeat, each breath.

They weren’t asking her for anything. They weren’t demanding she give herself over.

But they were offering.

And that, somehow, undid her more than anything else.

She buried her face in Daenerys' hair, breathing in the scent of salt, smoke, and wildflowers. Visenya’s arm tightened protectively around them both, her body a wall against the outside world.

She would hold Daenerys through the night. And she would let Visenya hold them all.

And in time, maybe she would let herself be loved.

Not out of pity. Not out of duty.

But because they had chosen her.

Not as an outsider.

But as theirs.

~

Morning broke softly aboard the ship, sunlight spilling in through the small porthole in slanted golden beams. The air inside the cabin was still warm with sleep and the scent of skin, dragons, and dreams, clinging to every surface like silk.

Lyarra stirred first, blinking groggily as she tried to piece together where she was. The weight across her chest and back grounded her before memory caught up—heat, breath, softness—and the closeness of two bodies wrapped around her.

Daenerys was curled into her, arms snug around Lyarra’s waist, her breath brushing the hollow of her shoulder. Her cheek rested just above Lyarra’s heart, and her hold hadn’t loosened in sleep. If anything, she’d drawn in tighter through the night, seeking comfort after the dream that had left her shaken.

At her back, Visenya lay sprawled over them both, draped with effortless intimacy. Her arm stretched across Lyarra’s waist, hand cupped low on Daenerys’s hip, and her leg curled through theirs. She didn’t just hold them—she blanketed them, protective and possessive, pressing them gently into the mattress like they were hers to shield.

Their breaths rose and fell in a shared rhythm. Lyarra’s every sense was filled with them—the warmth of their bodies, the scent of them, the softness of skin against skin. There was no space between them, no tension, only a quiet, tender entanglement.

Daenerys stirred next, her sleepy hum muffled against Lyarra’s collarbone. She nuzzled closer, letting out a sigh as her lips brushed lazily across Lyarra’s skin. "Warm," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep and affection. "Don’t move."

Lyarra froze for a heartbeat, then relaxed by degrees. She wasn’t used to this. This kind of touch. This kind of being held. But her body responded instinctively, curling more snugly around Daenerys, her hand stroking gently down her spine.

Behind them, Visenya shifted with a quiet groan. Her hand traced the curve of Lyarra’s waist, her fingertips brushing dainty paths along her side until they settled firmly. Then she leaned forward and kissed Daenerys fully on the lips, slow and deep. There was nothing hurried about it—just the language of years of trust and longing. The kiss was tender and unashamed, a silent reaffirmation of their bond.

Lyarra felt it. Not just the intimacy of it, but the weight of being there, witnessing it, sharing the bed where such love existed. For a moment, she felt like an outsider.

But then Daenerys reached blindly for her hand and found it, lacing their fingers beneath the blanket. Visenya’s arm tightened across her waist, pulling her more firmly into the embrace as if to say, You are here. With us. You are wanted.

Visenya pulled back from Daenerys only to press a kiss to her forehead, then turned her head to nuzzle gently into the back of Lyarra’s neck, brushing a soft kiss there too.

"I’ll get breakfast," she whispered against Lyarra’s skin. Her fingers lingered a moment longer at her side, then slid free with an almost reluctant grace.

Daenerys made a quiet sound of protest, burying her face deeper into Lyarra’s chest as Visenya carefully climbed from the bed. The loss of her weight made the mattress shift, and Lyarra suddenly realized how much she had begun to crave that pressure.

As Visenya rose, the dragons stirred.

Ghost lifted his head and yawned mightily before padding over and resting his head across Lyarra’s thigh, claiming space with all the unspoken dignity of a packmate. Nira uncurled from the bedding and fluttered onto Lyarra’s shoulders, circling once before nestling like a jewel against her neck, her tiny tail curling possessively.

Drakarion and Sylveris hopped onto the bed, their snouts nosing into Daenerys’s back. Aenryx and Vaelyx clambered after, settling across Lyarra and Ghost with huffs of satisfaction. They were all around them now, pressing in, protective and affectionate—like children crowding into a parental embrace.

Daenerys giggled sleepily, her fingers stroking along Drakarion’s snout. "Too many dragons," she mumbled.

"I don’t think there’s such a thing," Lyarra said softly, her voice rasped with sleep but edged in something fonder, warmer.

Daenerys lifted her head then, violet eyes foggy with dreams but clear in their emotion. She studied Lyarra for a long moment, gaze lingering on her face as if trying to memorize it, then leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss just beneath her jaw. It wasn’t casual or fleeting—it was reverent, affectionate, full of unspoken meaning. Lyarra’s breath hitched hard, her eyes flying wide for a heartbeat before fluttering shut, stunned by the warmth it sparked in her chest.

No one had ever kissed her like that before. If she’d been kissed at all, it had never been like this. Not with tenderness. Not with care.

Lyarra felt something in her chest tighten and unravel at once.

"Thank you," Daenerys whispered, voice muffled against her skin. "For last night. For staying."

Lyarra’s hand lifted, trembling slightly, to cradle the back of Daenerys’s head. Her fingers sank into soft silver strands, holding her there like she might fall apart without the contact. She buried her face in Daenerys's hair, her cheek resting against her head, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t have words. But Daenerys didn’t seem to need them. And neither, for the first time in a long while, did Lyarra.

Ghost gave a deep, contented sigh and settled his weight more heavily over their legs. The dragons shifted but didn’t leave, their wings folded neatly, their tails curling over arms and blankets and bare skin.

And in the center of it all, Lyarra breathed.

Surrounded by dragons and a direwolf, wrapped in the arms of women who held each other and now held her too, she felt it settle deep into her bones:

This was not a dream.

She was still getting used to being loved.

But she was starting to believe she could belong to this. To them.

Not as an intruder.

But as theirs.

The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat preceded Visenya's return.

The cabin door creaked open, and Visenya stepped in carefully, arms laden with a large tray of food. Warm steam curled from bowls of thick porridge laced with honey and cream, flanked by crusty bread, sliced fruit, and a clay pot of tea. Balanced along the tray’s edge were several cuts of raw meat, freshly carved and still glistening red—intended not for the women, but for the small crowd of dragons and one very alert direwolf that immediately perked up.

Visenya grinned as the cabin stirred with motion.

"Good morning, my little horde," she murmured with quiet affection.

Ghost lifted his head and rose from the tangle of limbs on the bed with a slow stretch, his red eyes locking on the tray like a soldier eyeing a reward. The four dragons stirred next—Drakarion, Sylveris, Vaelyx, and Aenryx—untangling themselves with soft growls and sleepy huffs as the scent of raw meat filled the room.

Nira blinked awake from her perch on Lyarra’s shoulder, her tiny body unfurling and wings fluttering with a contented chirp.

Still in bed, Daenerys stirred against Lyarra, making a soft pleased sound as she inhaled the scent of breakfast. Her arms stayed around Lyarra, head tucked under her chin, legs tangled with hers. She murmured something unintelligible and shifted, pressing closer instead of sitting up.

Lyarra blinked sleep from her eyes, still held in the warmth of the embrace, and looked up as Visenya approached. Her hair was a bit tousled from sleep, her cheeks slightly flushed, and for once, her body hadn’t tensed in waking. She looked soft. She felt safe.

Visenya leaned down to press a kiss to Daenerys’ temple and then to Lyarra’s forehead, fingers brushing back strands of dark hair.

"I brought enough for all of us," she said gently. "Including the children."

Lyarra let out a breath that was almost a laugh as the dragons descended on their portions of meat with gleeful growls. Ghost paced slowly over, his eyes sharp and watchful, waiting with surprising patience until Visenya offered him a thick slab of beef. But before he took a bite, he turned to nudge Nira gently with his snout, her tiny form still blinking the last of sleep from her eyes. With a soft whine, he nosed her toward a smaller strip of meat Visenya had thoughtfully included. Nira chirped once in gratitude before fluttering down to eat, and only then did Ghost begin on his own share, tail thumping once in quiet satisfaction.

"You didn’t have to," Lyarra murmured, voice still hoarse with sleep.

"I wanted to," Visenya replied simply. "You shouldn’t have to wake up and do anything but exist for a little while."

Daenerys finally sat up, still leaning heavily against Lyarra, her eyes bright with affection and drowsy gratitude. "You spoil us."

Visenya set the tray down at the foot of the bed, then climbed in behind them once more, pulling the covers up as she pressed close.

"Good," she said. "You deserve it."

She reached forward and broke off a piece of warm bread, dipping it in the honeyed porridge before offering it directly to Lyarra. The act was simple, but the look in her eyes made it feel intimate, grounding. Lyarra accepted the bite slowly, cheeks warming as she chewed. It had been days since she’d eaten anything more substantial than travel rations or whatever scraps she could keep down. Real food—warm, sweet, nourishing—hit her like a wave. Her eyes stung suddenly, overwhelmed by the simple sensation of being cared for, fed, remembered. Daenerys smiled and followed suit, scooping a piece of fruit and placing it gently against Lyarra’s lips.

"Eat," she coaxed, her voice low and affectionate. "You need strength."

Lyarra could only nod, swallowing hard around the lump rising in her throat. She hadn’t realized how desperately her body needed this—sustenance, warmth, kindness—until it was given freely. The soft devotion in every gesture carved through the exhaustion still clinging to her bones, leaving behind something raw and aching with gratitude. She reached for a slice of pear and offered it in return to Daenerys, brushing her fingertips as she did. Daenerys bit into it without looking away, her smile deepening.

Visenya leaned her chin on Lyarra’s shoulder, arms encircling both of them as she took lazy sips of tea, her presence solid and grounding. Every so often, she would press a kiss to Lyarra’s temple or nuzzle into Daenerys’s hair, her touch casual but constant.

The three of them passed pieces of fruit, spoonfuls of porridge, and sips of tea between each other without hesitation, feeding each other with gentle hands and quiet laughter. The bed had become a nest, a sanctuary of tangled limbs, warm food, and slow, sweet touches.

Their dragons curled around them in a protective sprawl, and Ghost lay with his head on Lyarra’s feet, his breath steady. Even Nira nestled close once she’d eaten her fill, purring quietly from her perch on Lyarra’s shoulder.

In the hush of morning, the world outside ceased to matter. Here, in the quiet warmth of shared space, they found peace not just in survival—but in each other.

And as Lyarra leaned back against Visenya’s chest, Daenerys curled at her side, she felt a fragile but growing certainty take root inside her.

She was not just wanted here.

She was cherished.

The room still glowed with the golden hush of morning, the remnants of warmth and intimacy lingering in the sheets, the quiet breathing of dragons, and the occasional rustle of scales or fur. But the time for lingering had passed.

They had work to do.

Visenya rose first, fluid and sure, stretching her limbs like a cat as she moved toward the wardrobe chest. The silk of the sheets slipped down her bare back, revealing pale skin marked with old scars and stories. Daenerys followed with a yawn, brushing a lingering kiss to Lyarra’s cheek before slipping free from the tangled blankets. She paused only to run her hand gently along Lyarra's arm, fingers trailing like whispers. Lyarra remained seated on the edge of the bed, still cocooned in the afterglow of rest, watching the twins with a quiet sense of awe and something deeper—a tenderness blooming in her chest that she didn’t yet have the words for.

There was a rhythm to them, something practiced and deeply familiar. Visenya held Daenerys’s dress up without a word, and Daenerys stepped into it easily, letting the silk settle around her curves. The fine blue fabric shimmered in the morning light, delicate and elegant, hugging her torso before flaring slightly at the hips. It left her shoulders and most of her back bare, the dragon tooth necklace resting against her pale skin—a gleaming fang curved like a talon between the swell of her breasts.

Visenya stepped in behind her, fingers deft as she adjusted the ties and smoothed the fabric with a care that felt more like devotion. Daenerys tilted her head to the side without thinking, letting Visenya fasten the necklace clasp at the nape of her neck. Their closeness wasn’t loud or showy, just natural—hands sliding along familiar skin, a brief kiss pressed to a bare shoulder, Visenya’s nose brushing Daenerys’s neck before murmuring something too soft for Lyarra to hear. Daenerys giggled, a low, pleased sound, then turned fully into her twin’s arms.

The kiss that followed was not fleeting or shy, but deep and possessive. Daenerys curled her hand around the back of Visenya’s neck and pressed their lips together with a hunger that made Lyarra’s breath catch. Visenya responded in kind, one hand firm on Dany’s waist, the other tangling in her hair as they kissed like they’d gone too long without it. When they finally pulled apart, it was with noses brushing, soft murmurs in Valyrian exchanged between kisses on jawlines and shoulders.

Then it was Visenya’s turn to dress. Her outfit was a striking balance of protection and grace—light robes of deep crimson and charcoal layered over shaped pieces of polished black leather: a pauldron at one shoulder, light bracers over her forearms, and a breastplate styled more for movement than war. Around her neck rested the necklace Daenerys had given her in Volantis—a silver dragon, its wings curled protectively around a fiery red stone. As Daenerys helped adjust the belts and lay the robe just so, her hands lingered at Visenya's hips, foreheads brushing again in a slow, breathless moment heavy with the kind of intimacy that comes from decades of love.

Lyarra watched, heart in her throat, feeling like she was intruding on something sacred and yet welcomed all the same. There was no embarrassment in the twins’ touches, no hesitation in their affection. Every movement was steeped in love, in a bond she could feel but not name.

When the twins turned their attention to her, Lyarra instinctively sat up straighter. "I don’t have anything suited for this heat," she said awkwardly. "Just Stark wool and northern leather."

"Then you’ll wear ours," Visenya said simply, already moving to retrieve what she had in mind.

Daenerys brought her a tunic of soft black linen and sleeveless chainmail light enough to breathe, shaped for agility. Over it, Visenya fitted a leather chest piece, the curve of it hugging Lyarra’s form more snugly than she expected. Matching bracers and greaves followed, and though the armor bore subtle Targaryen motifs, it didn’t feel borrowed.

It felt like it had been waiting for her.

The twins dressed her together—careful, quiet, respectful. They didn’t move with the same ease as they did with each other, but there was closeness all the same. Visenya buckled the vambrace at Lyarra’s wrist, her fingers brushing her pulse, lingering longer than necessary. Daenerys adjusted the chest plate, her knuckles grazing down Lyarra’s ribs, her gaze warm and admiring.

Neither asked permission.

Neither needed to.

And Lyarra didn’t flinch. Her heart fluttered with each touch, but she didn’t move away. She let them wrap her in protection and belonging.

When they finished, Daenerys stepped back with a soft hum of approval. "You look like fire and shadow."

Visenya smiled, her hand sliding along Lyarra’s waist, then curling slightly at her hip with subtle possession. "Like blood and vengeance."

Lyarra didn’t know how to answer that. So she simply stood taller and nodded once, her cheeks tinged pink, feeling the weight of the day settle onto her shoulders like a second skin. But this time, it didn’t feel heavy.

It felt earned.

As they walked from the cabin, dragons stirring to attention and Ghost padding behind them with watchful eyes, Lyarra realized she wasn’t walking alone.

She was held.

And somewhere deep inside her—something began to heal.

Chapter 12: XII

Summary:

The storm comes for Astapor. A theory about heritage, a truth unknown but undeniable.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The midday sun cast long shadows across the dusty stones as the trio returned to the plaza, accompanied by Ser Jorah Mormont and Arstan Whitebeard. The air shimmered with heat, thick with the scents of salt, sweat, and distant spice. Cloaked in confidence and quiet resolve, Daenerys led the procession with Visenya close at her side, draped in crimson and charcoal, each step echoing with purpose. Lyarra walked beside them like a silent shadow, her Targaryen-forged armor catching the sun in dull glints of fire-worn metal. Perched delicately around her shoulders, Nira curled like a living mantle, her tiny claws gripping lightly, wings occasionally flaring to maintain balance as she chirped and hissed in response to strange sounds. Ghost padded at Lyarra’s heel, large and silent, his pale eyes never still, ever the watchful guardian.

Above them, the dragons wheeled through the blue sky, shadows of death circling overhead—silent, graceful, and deeply threatening. Each beat of their wings reminded the city who truly held power.

The great marble hall they entered stank of incense and pride. The oppressive heat clung to every surface, the brazier smoke cloying in the lungs. Eight men waited on raised cushioned benches, arranged in a semi-circle like predatory birds. They were the richest and most powerful of Astapor’s slave-brokers, their silks dyed in rare colors, their sashes heavy with gold thread, and their cuffs set with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. Each glinted like shackles in the lantern light.

Daenerys lifted her chin with the bearing of a queen. "Tell them," she said to the translator girl—the same soft-voiced child from yesterday, her golden eyes impassive despite the weight of the room—"that I will buy all the Unsullied. All eight thousand fully trained, and all those still in training."

The girl blinked once, but showed no other sign of surprise. Her High Valyrian was clear, crisp, her voice steady as she conveyed Daenerys’s offer.

The effect was immediate.

Murmurs broke out like a thunderclap. One of the slave-brokers, his beard dyed blood-red and fingers heavy with emerald rings, scoffed aloud, waving a hand as if swatting away flies. Another leaned forward, brows furrowed, disbelief clear in the set of his mouth. Kraznys mo Nakloz wore his usual smirk, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

The eldest among them—his beard thick and white, threaded with dozens of tiny pearls that clicked softly as he moved—was the first to speak. His voice was dry and rasping, like parchment scraped against stone. "She does not have the coin," he declared flatly.

"A thousand Unsullied, perhaps," Kraznys added, sneering. "A thousand half-trained pups, if she sells her ships and the braid from her silver head. But eight thousand? All of them? She dreams."

Daenerys said nothing at first. She turned her head slightly toward Visenya, and a subtle nod passed between them. No words. No hesitation.

Then she stepped forward with regal calm. "Then we will offer more."

The hall stilled like a held breath.

"Name your price," Daenerys said.

The pearl-bearded elder narrowed his eyes. "A dragon."

A ripple of tension passed through the room. Even the faintest crackle of a brazier seemed to hush.

"A dragon of our choice," the old man added. "The black one is largest and healthiest."

Daenerys inclined her head, her voice level. "His name is Drakarion."

The old man sat back, his pearls clacking together with the movement. "All your goods, the three ships. And Drakarion."

A beat of silence.

Visenya’s fingers brushed Daenerys’s in a subtle show of grounding presence. Lyarra’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing, her eyes fixed on the brokers.

"Done," Daenerys said in the Common Tongue, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

"Done," echoed the old broker in thick, clotted Valyrian.

One by one, the other slave-brokers repeated the word like a death knell.

"Done," the translator girl repeated in the Common Tongue, her voice calm, eyes unreadable. "And done, and done, eight times done."

Kraznys mo Nakloz chuckled, stepping forward with arrogance practically dripping from his robes. "The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough. Until then, you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you. A token of a bargain well struck."

Daenerys did not look at the girl. "I shall," she said evenly.

The girl rendered both sides of the exchange without pause. If she had feelings about being traded like livestock, she buried them deeply. Her golden eyes stayed lowered, her posture composed. Only the faintest tightening of her mouth betrayed any thought at all.

Visenya stood close behind Daenerys, her hand once more touching her twin’s lightly, fingers curled in soft assurance. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes watched every movement with deadly calm. Lyarra remained still beside them, though the tension in her frame betrayed her anger. Her fingers twitched toward the hilt of her sword, and Ghost, sensing her unrest, let out a low growl, just loud enough to draw wary glances.

Nira hissed softly on Lyarra’s shoulders, the tiny dragon's wings fluttering as if sensing the undercurrent of fury and deceit. Above them, Drakarion’s shadow passed over the stained glass dome, black wings blotting the sun for a moment.

None of the slavers noticed.

None of them saw the fire smoldering in Daenerys Stormborn’s eyes.

Not yet.

But they would.

The slave brokers sent them to wait in a luxurious antechamber filled with soft silk cushions, deep couches draped in gold-threaded throws, and tables stacked with platters of fresh fruit and silver vases of rich Astapori wine. The air was perfumed with jasmine and clove, a stark contrast to the brutal, sun-baked courtyard they had just departed.

Jorah and Arstan took up guard posts at the door, silent and vigilant. Inside, the trio moved with quieter tension. Daenerys made her way toward a chaise near the open window, where the breeze lifted her silver hair. Visenya paced along the room's edge, her fingers lightly brushing carved wood and velvet. Lyarra hesitated before lowering herself onto a low settee, Nira curling tighter around her shoulders as Ghost laid at her feet, ever-watchful.

The other dragons were sprawled across the room, a presence of warmth, smoke, and quiet understanding. Drakarion drifted toward his mothers, curling close beside Daenerys with a low, uneasy trill. He knew, what was being discussed—what was planned. Though proud and strong, he sought the comfort of their nearness, pressing his head gently into Daenerys’s leg. She reached down without thinking, stroking his scaled brow slowly. Visenya moved to kneel beside him, murmuring softly under her breath in Valyrian as she ran her fingers down the length of his neck. The tremble in his wings stilled beneath her touch.

One by one, his siblings crept closer. Sylveris coiled around his other side, her serpentine grace folding over him protectively. Aenryx draped his wing across them like a shield, his golden eyes darting across the room as if guarding against a danger only he could see. Vaelyx nudged under Drakarion's chin, nuzzling until the black dragon gave a soft rumble of reassurance. They didn’t speak, but their presence spoke volumes. They huddled together—siblings bound by fire and instinct—as if bracing for a storm they felt coming on the wind. The air around them shimmered faintly with the heat of their collective breath, and Lyarra, watching from across the room, felt something in her chest tighten at the bond they shared.

The translator girl stood silently just inside the doorway, unsure of her place now that her previous master's business had been concluded and she had been given—formally and fully—as part of the bargain. She now belonged to the dragon twins, transferred as property like so much else in the transaction. She kept her hands folded before her, golden eyes flicking cautiously from one woman to the next, uncertain if she should stand still or kneel, speak or wait, breathe or disappear.

Visenya turned to her with a faint smile that didn’t quite touch her eyes. “Do you have a name, or must you draw a new one every day from some barrel?”

“That is only for Unsullied,” the girl replied. Then she blinked, realizing the question had been asked in High Valyrian. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh."

“Your name is Oh?” Visenya said with a dry smirk.

“No, Your Grace. Forgive this one her outburst. Your slave’s name is Missandei, but . . .”

“Missandei is no longer a slave,” Daenerys said at once, rising from the chaise. “You belong to us now, but I do not keep slaves. I free you, from this instant. If you stay with us, you will serve as one of our handmaids. I shall keep you by my side to speak for me as you spoke for Kraznys. But you may leave our service whenever you choose, if you have father or mother you would sooner return to.”

Missandei blinked rapidly, lips parting, then closing again. “This one will stay,” she said finally. Her voice trembled for the first time. “This one . . . I . . . there is no place for me to go. This . . . I will serve you, gladly.”

Daenerys nodded solemnly. “I can give you freedom, but not safety. I have a world to cross and wars to fight. You may go hungry. You may grow sick. You may be killed.”

“Valar morghulis,” said Missandei, in flawless High Valyrian.

“All men must die,” Daenerys agreed. “But not for a long while, we may pray.” She leaned back on the pillows and reached out, taking the girl’s hand gently in her own.

Visenya sank down beside them, her arm brushing against Daenerys's. Lyarra leaned forward slightly, listening intently.

“Are these Unsullied truly fearless?” Daenerys asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“You serve me now. Is it true they feel no pain?”

“The wine of courage kills such feelings. By the time they slay their sucklings, they have been drinking it for years.”

“And they are obedient?”

“Obedience is all they know. If you told them not to breathe, they would find that easier than not to obey.”

Daenerys nodded slowly. “And when we are done with them?”

“Your Grace?”

“When we have won our war and claimed the throne that was our father’s, our knights will sheathe their swords and return to their keeps, to their wives and children and mothers . . . to their lives. But these eunuchs have no lives. What am I to do with eight thousand eunuchs when there are no more battles to be fought?”

Missandei lowered her gaze. “The Unsullied make fine guards and excellent watchmen, Your Grace. And it is never hard to find a buyer for such well-blooded troops.”

“Men are not bought and sold in Westeros, they tell me.”

“With all respect, Your Grace, Unsullied are not men.”

“If I did resell them, how would I know they could not be used against me?” Dany asked pointedly. “Would they do that? Fight against me, even do me harm?”

“If their master commanded. They do not question, Your Grace. All the questions have been culled from them. They obey.” Her voice softened. “When you are . . . when you are done with them . . . Your Grace might command them to fall upon their swords.”

“And even that, they would do?”

“Yes.” Missandei’s voice had grown soft. “Your Grace.”

There was a quiet moment. Only the soft flicker of the lanterns and the rustle of fruit leaves filled the chamber.

Daenerys squeezed her hand gently. “You would sooner I did not ask it of them, though. Why is that? Why do you care?”

Missandei swallowed. “This one does not . . . I . . . Your Grace . . .”

“Tell me.”

The girl lowered her eyes. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Three of them were my brothers once, Your Grace.”

Daenerys nodded slowly at that, nothing else needed to be said as she looked at Visenya.

~~

They had been assembled in the Plaza of Punishment, fronting on Astapor’s main gate, so they might be marched directly from the city once Daenerys had taken them in hand. There were no bronze statues here; only a wooden platform where rebellious slaves were racked, flayed, and hanged. "The Good Masters place them so they will be the first thing a new slave sees upon entering the city," Missandei said quietly, her voice tight with old memory and pain.

Rank on rank on rank they stood, stone halfmen with hearts forged from brick and obedience; eight thousand and six hundred in the spiked bronze caps of the fully trained Unsullied, and five thousand more behind them—bareheaded yet armed with spears and shortswords. The boys at the rear were still children, but their discipline held like steel, unmoving in the sweltering heat.

Kraznys mo Nakloz and his grotesque fellowship of slavers waited in the plaza. Well-born Astapori loitered behind them in shaded knots, sipping wine from silver flutes while their slaves circulated with trays of fruit and delicacies. The elder broker, grotesque with layers of gold and a fringe of white pearls, lounged in a sedan chair borne by massive copper-skinned slaves. Lancers rode a slow perimeter around the crowd, their horses skittish beneath them. They smelled the dragons nearby. And feared them, rightly.

Kraznys held his ornate whip in one hand, his tokar draped in the other. "Here they are," he said, disdain curling his lips. "Tell her they are hers . . . if she can pay."

"She can," Missandei said, her voice composed.

Ser Jorah barked a sharp command, and the trade goods began to arrive in a parade of excess: six bales of tiger skins, three hundred bolts of fine silk, jars of saffron and myrrh, pepper and curry, cardamom. An onyx mask. Twelve jade monkeys. Casks of colored ink, red and black and green. Black amethysts, pearls, pickled cave fish, and even ivory eyes. Books bound in old leather, their contents incomprehensible. A gong. A hammer. All the riches of distant corners of the world.

While the goods were laid before them, Kraznys could not help one final insult. "They are green as yet," he said through Missandei. "Tell the whore of Westeros she would be wise to blood them early. Small cities lie ripe for sacking. She can keep the plunder. The Unsullied care not for gold. Bring the captives back here—we’ll buy them all, and some of the boys she sends might become Unsullied themselves. In this way, all prosper."

Finally, there was no more to add. "This was all we could transport," Dany said calmly. "The rest—amber, wine, black rice—awaits on our ships. And you have the ships themselves. So all that remains is . . ."

". . . the dragon," finished the broker with the spiked beard, thick accent distorting the Common Tongue.

Daenerys nodded, her throat dry as she took the chain brought from the ship’s hold. Her heart rebelled at the act. Visenya's jaw was tight, Lyarra's hands flexed at her sides, tension humming through her like a drawn bow. None of them liked it. But it had to be done.

With great effort, Daenerys handed the slaver the end of Drakarion’s chain. Her beloved son. In return, the broker gave her the whip. It was a beautiful, hideous thing—black dragonbone inlaid with gold, the lashes tipped in gilded claws. The pommel was shaped like a woman's snarling head, ivory teeth bared.

"The harpy's fingers," Kraznys said with a leering smile.

Dany turned it in her hand. It felt wrong. Light. But it bore the weight of blood and freedom. "Is it done? Do they belong to me?"

"It is done," he replied, tugging Drakarion's chain sharply.

Daenerys mounted her horse, the beast fidgeting beneath her. Visenya mounted beside her, armored and radiant in the sun, while Lyarra swung onto her own mount with practiced ease. Nira nestled around her shoulders, and Ghost padded silently beside the horses, his red eyes glowing.

Dany's heart thundered. Was this what Rhaegar felt, standing before the Trident? Did he know what came next? She stood in her stirrups and raised the whip.

"IT IS DONE!" she shouted. "YOU ARE MINE!"

She rode the line, the Unsullied unmoving as statues. "YOU ARE THE DRAGON’S NOW! BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE!"

One of the elder brokers turned sharply. He heard her Valyrian.

But the others were shouting at Kraznys, clustered around him and Drakarion. They tugged and pulled at the dragon’s chain. Drakarion growled, smoke curling from his nostrils, his wings twitching.

Dany wheeled her mare and rode back. "You are in difficulty," she said lightly.

"He will not come," Kraznys said, irritation bleeding through his arrogance.

"There is a reason," Daenerys said. Her voice rang out. "A dragon is no slave."

She brought the lash down across his face.

The scream was satisfying. Blood streaked his cheeks, dripping into his beard. But Daenerys didn’t stop.

"Drakarion," she said, voice low and sweet, rich with command. "Dracarys."

The dragon roared. Flame, thick and black and churning, poured from his jaws, enveloping Kraznys. His eyes melted, his beard ignited, and the fire crowned him in a halo of ruin. The scent of charred flesh drowned out every perfume in the plaza.

The world exploded.

Slavers screamed. Gold-fringed tokars caught underfoot as they stumbled, tripping over one another in panic. Drakarion rose into the sky with a second roar, and his siblings followed—a storm of wings and fire.

Lyarra was already moving, her sword drawn with a hiss. Visenya followed a heartbeat later, her blade shining in the firelight.

The Plaza of Punishment had become a battlefield. And it was only the beginning.

When Dany turned to look, chaos had overtaken the Plaza of Punishment. A third of Astapor’s proud demon-horned warriors were fighting just to stay atop their terrified mounts, their copper cloaks flaring behind them like dying embers. Another third had already broken, fleeing in a bright blaze of gleaming metal and fear, their formation shattering like glass. Their horses screamed, hooves skittering on blood-slick bricks.

One man, braver or more foolish than the rest, managed to draw a sword. He barely had it free of its scabbard before Visenya was there. Dark Sister flashed in the sunlight, a blur of shadowed silver. Her power thrummed through her limbs, magic drawn from fire and fury lending her unnatural speed. The blade cleaved clean through the man's neck, severing flesh and bone in a heartbeat. His head flew free, a grotesque arc ending in a thud among spilled wine and overripe figs.

Another slaver turned to flee but Lyarra was already upon him. Her bastard sword sang through the air and took his hand at the wrist. Blood sprayed across his silks as he screamed, clutching the stump with wide, unbelieving eyes. He turned his horse and galloped away, trailing crimson behind him like a banner.

Strong Belwas laughed like a madman, spinning his arakh in great arcs as he barreled into the fray, slicing through Astapori guards with reckless glee. Jorah and Arstan remained close to Daenerys, flanking her like the seasoned swords they were, keeping her safe as the world unraveled.

"Spears!" came a desperate cry. The elder broker, bloated with wine and arrogance, stood in his sedan chair, his arms trembling as he gestured wildly. "Unsullied! Defend us! Stop them! Defend your masters! Spears! Swords!"

Visenya didn't hesitate. She grabbed a fallen spear, her muscles coiling as she hurled it with lethal precision. It pierced the old man’s chest with a crack of splitting ribs, lifting him from his chair and hurling him backward. The slaves who bore him dropped their poles in terror, and the litter crashed to the ground. The broker twitched, trying to crawl, pearls clicking and blood pooling as he dragged himself toward the nearest rank of Unsullied.

They did not move.

Rank on rank on rank, they stood—silent, still, unflinching.

Not one broke formation. Not one even glanced at the dying man at their feet.

Daenerys felt something rise in her throat, a blend of awe and triumph. The gods have heard my prayer.

She spurred her mare forward, her silver-gold braid lashing behind her like a banner. The Unsullied watched her pass with eyes blank but alert, waiting.

“Unsullied!” she called, her voice a clarion cry above the panic. “Slay the Good Masters! Slay the soldiers! Slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip! But harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see!”

With a flourish, she raised the harpy’s fingers—the black and gold whip that had sealed this cruel bargain. And then, with deliberate contempt, she flung it from her hand. It tumbled through the air and struck the dust with a hiss.

“Freedom!” she cried. Her voice cracked with passion, but she did not falter. “Dracarys! Dracarys!”

“Dracarys! Dracarys!” the Unsullied answered, thousands of voices erupting as one, a tidal wave of sound crashing against the dying order of Astapor. It was the sweetest word Daenerys had ever heard.

And then the slaughter began.

Slavers ran, sobbed, screamed for mercy. But mercy had burned away.

Spears flashed. Chains shattered. Blood painted the bricks in arcs as the Unsullied advanced in perfect rhythm, cutting down their former masters with neither hesitation nor cruelty. Just precision.

Overhead, dragons roared.

Drakarion flew in wide circles above the plaza, his siblings tight behind him. His wings beat like thunder, his roar a storm. Smoke curled from his jaws, and flame licked his throat. The dragons did not strike yet—they circled, a storm waiting for the signal.

Lyarra stood tall in the saddle, her hair tangled by wind, blood drying on her cheek. Ghost was at her side, his muzzle stained red, his growl low and constant. Nira curled around her shoulders, scales gleaming in the light of fire and ash, tiny growls mimicking the larger dragons.

Visenya's eyes glowed faintly with magic, her blade slick with blood. She met Dany's gaze across the chaos, and nodded once. They had done it.

The storm had come to Astapor.

And the old world was dying in fire and blood and freedom.

~~

The battle of Astapor had not truly been a battle at all. Once the Unsullied turned their spears upon their former masters, the fate of the city was sealed. The Good Masters possessed wealth, not courage. They wielded cruelty, not discipline. The Unsullied, shaped by pain and forged in silence, moved through the streets like a storm—merciless and unstoppable. Blood washed away blood, and by nightfall, Astapor belonged to the free.

Daenerys, Visenya, and Lyarra had walked amid the fires of change, overseeing the beginnings of liberation. The Unsullied freed slaves, tended the wounded, brought food and water to the starving. The trio took shelter in one of the grand palaces that had once belonged to the slavers—a gilded prison of glass and marble that now belonged to the liberators.

As twilight fell and their work was finally done, they withdrew to rest. The palace halls echoed beneath their feet, but Lyarra followed quietly, her body sore from the day's battle, her heart heavier still. She expected to be shown to her own room, to find solitude.

Instead, Visenya opened a door and took her hand, guiding her inside without a word.

The chamber was a sanctuary. Carved wooden screens filtered the candlelight into golden slats that danced across plush cushions and velvet throws. In the center of the room, a sunken bath steamed with scented water, petals floating on the surface. The air smelled of lavender and myrrh, soothing and warm.

Lyarra froze at the threshold, startled by the intimacy of the moment. Then Daenerys turned, her expression soft with affection, her fingers already loosening the fastenings of her dress.

"Come. You fought beside us. You rest with us."

Visenya stood at the edge of the bath, her armor already discarded in a pile of leather and steel, her bare skin kissed by candlelight and the sheen of drying sweat. Her body bore the day's marks: bruises, scratches, the kind earned in hard-won victory. But she carried herself with calm pride, her gaze on Lyarra as though the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Lyarra swallowed hard. Her hands moved before she could think, unbuckling her own battered chestpiece. Slowly, hesitantly, she undressed. This wasn’t like Winterfell. There were no shieldmaidens laughing, no shared practicality. This was something softer, deeper—a moment carved from trust and desire.

The bath was small, and with all three inside, their limbs brushed and tangled beneath the water. Visenya sank in on one side, Daenerys on the other, and Lyarra in between. The heat seeped into her bones. She sighed, unable to hold back the sound, her body giving in to rare comfort.

Daenerys reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from Lyarra’s cheek. Her fingers lingered, a gentle caress that made the younger woman shiver. On her other side, Visenya leaned in close, her thigh pressed to Lyarra’s beneath the water. When Lyarra dared glance at her, Visenya smiled faintly and let her fingers trail down her forearm.

"You’re safe," Visenya murmured. "You’re not alone."

Lyarra couldn't speak. Her chest ached with emotion, her eyes stung. She had not been touched with kindness in what felt like years. Her body, always tense, always ready to fight, trembled now under the gentleness she had never known how to ask for.

In the corner, the dragons had made their nest. Drakarion lay at the center, his golden eyes watching his mothers with unwavering attention. Nira curled possessively on his back, content and purring softly. The older dragons encircled them, protective and calm. Ghost had joined them, laying his great white head against Aenryx’s side, his eyes half-lidded in rare contentment.

Daenerys shifted closer, her arm wrapping around Lyarra’s waist beneath the water, pulling her gently into her side. Visenya mirrored the gesture, her hand resting on Lyarra’s thigh, a possessive weight that grounded her.

There was no shame between the twins—only love. They kissed each other over Lyarra’s shoulder, soft and sure, passion held in restraint. And when they turned back to Lyarra, their eyes held the same fire for her.

Lyarra felt it burning through her: fear, yearning, hope. She wasn’t used to being wanted. Not like this. Not completely.

In the heat of the water, surrounded by dragons, wolves, and women who saw her, she let her head rest on Daenerys’s shoulder. Visenya’s hand rose to stroke her back, and Daenerys pressed a soft kiss to her temple.

The bath had long since cooled, yet the heat lingered in their skin, in their breath, in the tension that hummed between them.

With gentle, unhurried hands, the three women stepped out of the water, still slick and glowing from the warmth. Steam clung to their bodies like mist, the scent of jasmine, wild mint, and rose oil thick in the air. They moved around each other in perfect sync, as if they'd known each other far longer than days. There was no need for words. Every touch spoke volumes.

Daenerys was the first to take up a towel, her violet eyes soft and half-lidded with affection as she stepped behind Lyarra and drew the cloth over her shoulders. Her hands brushed reverently along her arms, down her back, trailing with purpose over the small of her spine. The towel moved slowly, lovingly, tracing curves and planes like a map she never wanted to forget. When she knelt to dry Lyarra's legs, her fingers lingered on the inside of her thighs, enough to draw breath from the younger woman, enough to make her heart stutter.

Visenya came next, her towel barely a pretense as she pressed it against Lyarra's front, drying her chest and stomach with a firm, slow rhythm. She stood close, so close that Lyarra could feel her breath on her collarbone, could feel the rise and fall of her breasts against her own. The towel slipped away too soon, replaced by bare hands as Visenya wrapped her arms around her and whispered, "You're ours tonight."

They dried each other with the same care, but their attention always drifted back to Lyarra. Touches lasted longer on her skin. Kisses brushed her shoulders, her temple, her jawline. And when Daenerys finally led her toward the bed with fingers entwined in hers, Lyarra felt like she was walking into something sacred.

The bed was immense, draped in silk and furs, the mattress so soft it promised to catch every breath, every shiver. The dragons had already gathered in the corner, forming a warm nest of scales and wings. Drakarion lay curled with his siblings, Nira tucked safely into his side, Ghost sprawled protectively with one paw resting over the baby dragon. Even they, in their quiet understanding, mirrored the closeness their mothers now sought.

The three women slipped beneath the covers, the silk sheets cooling quickly against flushed skin. Lyarra was nestled in the middle, but there was no space between them. Daenerys curled around her front, legs tangled with hers, one arm draped possessively over her waist. Her lips nuzzled along Lyarra’s neck, soft kisses whispered into her skin, tasting her heartbeat.

Visenya pressed in from behind, half on top of her, one leg slung over both of theirs, her arm wrapped securely across Lyarra's ribs. Her hand rested beneath Lyarra's breast, just enough to feel the rise and fall of each breath. Her body molded to Lyarra’s like she belonged there. Her thigh slid between Lyarra’s legs with bold, steady intimacy. Her presence was a weight that soothed rather than overwhelmed, as if anchoring Lyarra to the world.

They touched her like they had all the time in the world.

There was no urgency, only desire made sacred by affection. Every kiss to her shoulder, every caress of fingertips along her hips, every whispered word and shared breath was filled with meaning. It wasn’t just lust. It was longing. It was the ache of having found something precious and refusing to let it go.

And Lyarra, for all her scars and armor, for all her grief and guardedness, began to soften beneath it. Her body yielded slowly, trembling under their touch. Every time she started to pull away or stiffen from habit, a kiss would find her temple, a hand would gently stroke down her back, and she would find herself melting again.

"You feel so good beneath me," Visenya murmured into her ear, her voice low and rough with heat. She shifted, pressing down slightly, her thigh cradling Lyarra deeper into the mattress.

Lyarra gasped, her breath hitching. Her hands curled into the sheets, unsure where to touch, where she was allowed. But neither Daenerys nor Visenya gave her the space to doubt.

"Let us hold you," Daenerys whispered, her fingers stroking Lyarra’s hair back from her face. "Just this. Just us."

Visenya kissed the nape of Lyarra’s neck. "You don’t have to be strong tonight. Let us protect you."

Lyarra blinked hard, her chest tightening with emotion. No one had ever said that to her. No one had held her like this.

Her voice was a whisper, raw. "Okay."

The three of them curled together, bodies tangled beneath the silken sheets. Lyarra felt the weight of Visenya atop her, grounding and steady. She felt Daenerys's breath against her neck, her arm wrapped protectively around her. And slowly, the tension that had lived in her bones since the Red Wedding, since before, began to loosen.

She felt safe.

She felt wanted.

And for the first time since she could remember, she let herself believe she could belong.

To them.

And they to her.

~~

Over the next few days, the city of Astapor came to life under new hands.

The trio—Visenya, Daenerys, and Lyarra—moved through the city like storm and flame, gentle and relentless all at once. There was no time to rest long in victory. With Astapor’s old rulers turned to ash and the Unsullied freed, their next war was already on the horizon. But before they marched, they rebuilt. They healed.

The Unsullied were divided into two legions by Visenya and Daenerys, their ranks gleaming in new purpose. They were allowed—encouraged—to name themselves for the first time in their lives. Soldiers once known only by cruel, disposable labels now chose identities that resonated with pride and power. Some chose names from old stories; others honored the dead or the dreams they’d been denied. There were tears. There were quiet smiles. And there was pride.

Grey Worm was named general of both legions. When asked why he chose to keep the name given to him by slavers, he replied in calm, clear High Valyrian that it was the name he bore when Daenerys Stormborn gave him freedom. It would remind him of who he had become.

Missandei remained at the trio’s side, ever watchful and precise. Though no longer needed to translate—both Daenerys and Visenya spoke Valyrian as fluently as Common—her insight and intuition made her invaluable. She moved like a shadow at their side, her voice soft but steady, offering advice, correcting supply errors, and quietly helping establish the foundations of something greater than conquest.

But it was not only the Unsullied being forged anew.

Visenya took command of the city’s rebirth with a zeal born of fire and memory. Her eyes gleamed when she spoke of legions, of auxiliaries, of structure and formation. She called for volunteers from the newly freed slaves—and they came. In hundreds. In thousands.

She divided them with a commander’s instinct: slingers, engineers, light infantry, logistics, medics. She began organizing them into auxiliary ranks—centurions, decurions, and support squads—pulling from the ancient knowledge of empires long dead but never forgotten. Her obsession with strategy as young Victoria now bloomed into something dangerous and beautiful. This was not a mob. It was a war machine in the making.

Lyarra stood with them in the sun, sweat on her brow and her bastard sword a blur of silver. She demonstrated stances, sparred with recruits, laughed when knocked back and roared when she struck clean. Her presence lit a fire in their hearts. The soldiers called her the Dragonwolf, whispered her name like a blessing. She bore their admiration with a quiet strength, always searching the camp for flashes of silver hair.

She always found them—Daenerys at the supply tents, arms bare and lips curved in encouragement; Visenya pacing beside the engineers, her armor catching the sun. And when their eyes met across the distance, Lyarra’s pulse surged.

When they came near—passing water, correcting stances, brushing sand from her shoulders—their touches lingered. A hand would settle at her hip. Fingers would trail down her spine. A kiss, quick and possessive, would be pressed behind her ear. Their closeness was fire wrapped in silk.

Daenerys rode often between camps and quarters, her hair braided in silver-gold, her skin kissed bronze by the heat of the sun. She moved through the people with a queen’s grace and a healer’s heart. She ensured every child had food. Every wound was seen. She placed gentle hands on shaking shoulders and promised safety. And they believed her.

And in the fleeting quiets between orders and obligations, she found Lyarra. Pressed a kiss to her throat. Touched her jaw. Whispered soft things in Valyrian that made Lyarra tremble.

Visenya, sharp and burning, matched her twin in passion but burned slower. Her fingers curled possessively around Lyarra’s wrist as they studied maps. Her eyes traced her curves beneath armor. She would tug her aside, into shade or silence, just to press their foreheads together and remind her she was not alone.

Even among steel and orders, there was tenderness. And there was hunger. When night fell, the three collapsed into each other like stars bound by gravity—bodies tangled, breath shared, skin pressed to skin.

Together, they shaped not just an army, but a dream.

One forged in fire, blood, and the kind of love that would set the world ablaze.

~~

Night had fallen over Astapor like a velvet shroud, the stars emerging above the city's low pyramids and red brick walls. The fires from the streets below still flickered, soft with the hum of laughter, clattering of pots, and the occasional whistle from passing guards. The city was still alive but finally, finally quiet.

The balcony doors stood open, allowing a soft breeze to carry in the scent of spice and sea. Lyarra stood at the edge of the railing, her eyes cast out toward the horizon. She wore only one of Visenya's robes, a sheer thing of black silk that caught the starlight in glimmers and shadows. It hung open at the front, the breeze teasing it against her thighs, revealing more than it hid.

Behind her, Visenya pressed in close, her body flush to Lyarra’s back. She too wore one of the robes—matching in cut and color, hanging just as open, its sheer fabric doing nothing to obscure the curves of her breasts or the lines of her hips. One hand braced on the railing beside Lyarra while the other slid possessively beneath the front of the robe, fingers warm and callused as they rested just beneath the swell of Lyarra’s breasts. Occasionally, they brushed upward in slow, idle circles, feather-light and teasing.

Visenya's cheek rested against Lyarra’s shoulder, her breath slow and hot. Lyarra could feel the weight and softness of her breasts pressing firmly into her back, the heat of her body making her feel deliciously trapped in the best way.

"You should wear my clothes more often," Visenya murmured, voice low and molten. "They look better on you."

Lyarra’s breath caught, but she didn’t pull away. She never did, not anymore. Her hands curled lightly over Visenya’s forearm, not restraining but grounding herself. Her heart beat fast, not with fear or hesitation, but with the thrum of want and a blooming, unfamiliar comfort. The disbelief was still there—that this was hers, that they were hers—but it no longer kept her distant.

From within the room behind them, Daenerys watched for a moment longer before gliding barefoot across the stone. She moved like a cat in the dark, quiet and sure, her own robe sheer and silver, clinging to her in the places it touched and revealing all it didn't. The silk slipped with each step, and the moonlight revealed the full curve of her breasts and hips as she joined them.

Her arms slipped around Lyarra from the front, her own bare skin pressing to Lyarra’s chest, the swell of her breasts soft against her. She rested her chin just beneath Lyarra's collarbone, lips brushing the underside with a feather-light touch.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," Dany murmured, her hands resting low on Lyarra’s hips, palms firm and comforting.

"Just watching," Lyarra whispered, her voice rough and hushed.

"What do you see?" Visenya asked, lips grazing the curve of her neck.

"A city that doesn't belong to chains anymore." Lyarra leaned her head back into Visenya's shoulder, exhaling slowly. "A future I never thought I’d live to see."

Dany lifted her head to kiss the hollow of Lyarra’s throat, lingering just a heartbeat longer than expected. "Then we’ll make sure you live to see the rest of it. With us."

Their hands didn’t stop moving. Slow, reverent touches that spoke of affection and heat in equal measure. They were never rushed. Never demanding. Always attuned. Always aware. Always wanting.

In the balcony’s shadowed embrace, skin warmed by each other and the night breeze, they stood tangled together—the trio clothed in starlight and silk and the weight of what they were becoming.

They had brought the storm to Astapor. Now, in each other’s arms, they found the calm after. And the promise of everything still to come.

The moon had risen high, casting soft silver light across the silk-draped bed where the three of them lay, the room steeped in warmth and the scent of jasmine drifting in from the balcony. Outside, the stars glittered above the rooftops of Astapor, the sounds of the city long faded into hush. The only noises now were the faint creak of shifting bodies, the sleepy rustle of dragons nearby, and the gentle cadence of breath shared between three women tangled together.

Lyarra lay nestled between the twins, their skin pressed close to hers, their touch a soothing balm over the cracks still healing in her soul. Her hair spilled like dark smoke across the pillows, slightly damp from the warm night, and every inch of her felt flushed and safe in a way she had not known for years—if ever.

Visenya lay curled around her from behind, one leg hooked over Lyarra’s hip with a quiet possessiveness that made Lyarra feel anchored—grounded in a way she hadn't realized she craved. The pressure of Visenya’s body against her back was firm but not overwhelming, and her soft breasts molded warmly against Lyarra’s shoulder blades, the velvet of her skin a silent promise of intimacy. Her arm lay securely beneath Lyarra, while her free hand gently toyed with a curling strand of her hair, the tender caress as much a declaration of affection as it was a soothing motion.

From behind, Visenya’s fingers began to drift more boldly, tracing the edge of Lyarra’s ribs, then sweeping up again in slow spirals that skimmed the curve beneath her breast before dipping low to cradle the edge of her hip. Her touch was reverent, exploratory—an artist painting passion with fingertips. Lyarra’s breath hitched softly, her own hand reaching back, brushing against Visenya’s thigh, then curling around it, anchoring herself in the solid heat behind her. Her fingers pressed gently, a question she wasn’t ready to voice, and yet already knew the answer to.

Lyarra could feel her own body uncoiling slowly, the tension of years spent gripping her independence like a blade finally softening under the twin warmth of affection and want. In the North, strength had meant solitude. Survival meant silence. But here—pressed between two women who seemed to worship every inch of her with touch and breath, desire and love—Lyarra found herself letting go. Just a little. Just enough to be held. Just enough to be theirs.

Daenerys rested against Lyarra’s front, her chin tucked beneath the hollow of her throat, her breath warming the tender skin there, her mouth occasionally brushing over the delicate spot with the ghost of kisses. One hand splayed warmly across Lyarra’s ribs, her fingers trailing slowly—teasingly—until her knuckles grazed the underside of her breast, lingering just a moment too long. Her other hand slid possessively down Lyarra’s hip and across her thigh, fingers tracing the edge of her skin with a silent hunger barely restrained.

Lyarra’s hand, emboldened by their tenderness, came up instinctively, brushing over Daenerys’s waist, her thumb gliding across the subtle dip of her spine before smoothing up to trace the slope of her ribs. She could feel the way Daenerys shivered at the contact, the way her breath caught before she exhaled in something close to a sigh of longing.

The heat of their bodies, the slow, deliberate intimacy of their caresses—it wasn’t just comfort. It was desire. Tangible. Heavy. A hunger wrapped in silken restraint. And Lyarra, who had always believed herself too scarred to want or be wanted like this, was beginning to understand that she had never truly been touched before—not like this. Not with such reverence. Not with such hunger. And she wanted it. She wanted them.

And for once, being caught in the middle—surrounded, claimed, and worshipped—felt like safety. Like belonging. Like home.

At the foot of the bed, curled in a massive tangle of wings, tails, and fur, their dragons slept. Drakarion's head was nestled beside Ghost's, while Nira rested curled on her older sibling’s back, tiny but safe. The warmth of the dragons seemed to radiate outward, and even Ghost—ever watchful—was dozing lightly, content to remain close, his large body pressing against the others as if he, too, needed this peace.

Their warmth surrounded Lyarra, enveloping her like the softness of the bed linens and the weight of love draped around her shoulders. The comforting press of bare skin, the scent of sun-warmed silk and sweet jasmine, the gentle rise and fall of breath—they surrounded her as much as the knowledge that she was no longer wandering without an anchor.

And within that quiet, Visenya’s voice cut through, low and unshakably calm, spoken right into the shell of Lyarra’s ear, her breath warm and intimate.

"We think you're one of us."

Lyarra didn’t jolt. She didn’t even breathe differently. But something inside her shifted—an old lock long rusted from years of solitude clicking open. Her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above them, pale lashes blinking slowly as her mind caught up with a truth that had always lingered just outside her grasp, whispering to her in dreams and fire.

Daenerys nodded, her soft silver hair brushing Lyarra’s cheek as she shifted closer, her arm curling possessively around Lyarra’s waist. Her voice didn’t come this time; she didn’t need to speak for her belief to be understood. It was there in her touch, in the way her fingers smoothed over the curve of Lyarra’s hip and rested firmly like a vow.

Lyarra’s voice emerged after a pause. Measured. Distant, but clear. "I always thought it might've been Ashara Dayne," she said. "Because of my eyes. Violet. Like hers. It was easier to believe than the alternative. Easier than dragons."

Visenya didn’t interrupt. Her hand stilled for only a moment before continuing her gentle stroking, the intimacy grounding and sure. Her lips grazed the shell of Lyarra’s ear, a silent reminder she was listening—here—entirely present.

Lyarra gave a shaky exhale. "But dragons... dragons only come from one house really."

Her voice wavered with those words. She swallowed hard, her body trembling in their arms. The weight of it was starting to land. To settle. And still, neither twin let go. They only held her tighter.

"Ned never told me anything about my mother. Not even her name. I asked once. He said it didn’t matter." Her lips trembled, her hands clutching the sheets between her fingers. "But he had a dragon egg. Tucked away. Kept safe, like me. He protected me with everything he had. Like I was more than a mistake."

Visenya pressed her lips to Lyarra’s temple, a firm, comforting pressure. Daenerys, silent still, tucked her face more closely against Lyarra’s throat, her hands rubbing gentle circles over Lyarra’s side.

"Lyanna," Lyarra breathed. This time, there was no hesitation. Just the cold fire of truth. "Everyone said I looked like her. The hair. The way I rode. The way I burned. I wanted it to be false. But she died right at the end of the war. Right when I was born."

The silence stretched for a moment before she whispered, voice cracking, "What’s more likely? That the most honorable man in Westeros had a bastard he never even tried to explain, or that he couldn't let his sister's child be murdered like the others?"

Daenerys reached for her hand and squeezed tightly, her own fingers trembling. "You are not alone," she said fiercely. "And you never will be again."

Lyarra turned her head slightly, looking between the two of them. There was no disbelief in their faces. No pity. Only certainty. Warmth. A fierce kind of belonging that wrapped around her as completely as the arms holding her now.

Daenerys met Visenya's eyes over Lyarra’s shoulder, and in a voice that was more memory than present, she said, "In the House of the Undying, I saw Rhaegar. My brother. And a woman in a bed, cradling a newborn. He called her Rhaenyra. He said she was the Song of Ice and Fire."

She shook her head slightly, the emotion thick in her voice. "He was already dead by the time you were born. He couldn’t have held you. But the vision... the name... the feeling... it was you. I think it was always meant to be you."

Lyarra’s breath left her slowly, shakily. "It was me," she whispered. The words tasted strange. Not false. But powerful. Too large for her mouth.

Visenya kissed her temple again, lingering longer this time, and Daenerys pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. One of Lyarra’s hands reached out and curled into Daenerys’s hair, the other sliding along Visenya’s thigh. She needed them—needed their warmth and certainty.

She was fire-born. Raised in cold, taught to hide her flame, but her blood burned now. For the first time, she believed it. For the first time, she dared.

Lyarra let out a quiet, broken laugh. Her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. Not here.

And in that quiet bed, wrapped in silk and warmth, between the dragon twins who had cracked her open with affection and healed her in the same breath, with dragons and direwolf resting at their feet, she finally felt it settle.

She wasn’t just a shadow of someone else. She wasn’t a mistake. She wasn’t alone.

She was theirs. And she was home.

Chapter 13: XIII

Summary:

The Dragon has three heads and three hearts. The blade that was broken, a legacy reforged.

Notes:

Well...um warning for spicy in this chapter. xD

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XIII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The sun hung high over Astapor, a molten crown above the training grounds outside the city, where heat shimmered in golden waves. Dust rose in thick spirals as the Auxiliary recruits trained under its unrelenting blaze. Their boots thudded against the packed earth, the sharp clatter of spear hafts and shield edges creating a rhythm of discipline and growing confidence. They moved in slowly tightening formations, rough around the edges but getting stronger with each hour of sweat and repetition.

They were not Unsullied, and were never meant to be. Their training was different—less about perfection, more about cohesion and adaptability. They would fight beside the Unsullied, not mirror them. Armed with oval shields and thrusting spears for formation fighting, they were also being drilled in the use of short swords styled after the gladius, and the pilum, a heavy throwing javelin. Under the watchful gaze of seasoned Unsullied veterans and a handful of newly promoted centurions and decurions, they were slowly learning to work as a force: a shield wall backed by deadly discipline, flexible and formidable.

To the left, a group of slingers practiced their timing, arms whipping in unison to send stones screaming through the air toward rows of dummies. Though many of the shots missed their marks, the relentless pace and repetition created an overwhelming barrage. The dummies rattled and splintered under the onslaught, and with each volley, the chaos began to take on a deadly rhythm, a raw promise of devastation turned into discipline.

Just beyond them, a cadre of crossbowmen fired from staggered lines, the teams rotating ranks between volleys with increasingly smooth coordination. The heavy bolts hissed through the air, burying deep in straw and timber with satisfying force. Each volley was punctuated by the heavy thunk of quarrels slamming into targets, echoing like war drums across the field. Their instructors moved behind them with sharp eyes and barked corrections, tuning their movements into something lethal and precise.

These were not master archers, nor elite marksmen, but they were becoming something else entirely—a disciplined force of thunder and stone, of steel and willpower. Even in their roughness, the potential was undeniable.

Farther off, light cavalry circled the edge of the field, riders urging their mounts through formation drills and tight turns. Most were former messengers and tradesfolk, now learning to scout, strike, and vanish like ghosts. Their horses kicked up golden clouds of dust as they darted and weaved, growing bolder with every pass. They would never match a true cavalry force in battle but they were not supposed to.

And at the center of it all—like a sun of her own—stood Lyarra.

Her body gleamed with sweat, every muscle taut with the effort of motion and command. Her armor, leather and chainmail, hugged her with functional elegance, worn open at the collar and sleeves for some relief in the oppressive heat. Her dark hair was tied up, wisps clinging to her temples, her violet eyes alive with fire and focus as she moved among the recruits.

She corrected stances with firm hands, demonstrated spear-thrusts with the power of a veteran, and called out commands with the kind of confidence that demanded obedience. Every glance she cast over the training field burned with purpose. And Visenya, standing beneath the shaded awning of a silk-draped pavilion, could not tear her gaze away.

It wasn’t just pride that curled in her chest—it was longing. Lyarra looked like a vision born from flame and shadow: wild and commanding, fierce and untamed. The light kissed the curve of her throat, traced the line of her collarbone, danced across the sheen of sweat along her exposed shoulders.

Visenya's fingers curled against her thigh, aching to touch. To mark. To possess.

She imagined Lyarra draped in red and black, her hair loose and rippling behind her like a banner of fire, her voice rallying legions beneath the sigils of House Targaryen. There was something primal about her—something that refused to be caged. Visenya had known the hunger of battle, the fire of magic burning through her veins. But now that hunger lived in the curve of Lyarra’s jaw, in the strength of her grip as she guided a recruit’s hand to the right place on a spear.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was sovereign. A dragon unbowed.

Daenerys stood nearby, equally captivated. Her fingers gripped the edge of the fabric post beside her, knuckles pale. There was a smile on her lips, but her eyes held the same heat Visenya knew burned in her own. She could see the way Dany looked at Lyarra now—not just as kin, or comrade, or flame—but as a woman she loved.

They would let her finish. Let her lead. Let her carve this moment with the blade of her will. But the moment she stepped away from the training yard, they would claim her with arms, mouths, and whispered words. They would remind her who she belonged to.

Because they saw it now with the clarity of firelight: Lyarra wasn’t merely someone to protect. She was theirs.

And no army—no crown—would ever stand between dragons who had chosen one another.

The heat of the sun paled beside the heat blooming between them. And Visenya already burned for the night to come, when sweat and dust would be replaced with silks and skin, with kisses shared between hearts wrapped in flame.

Fire called to fire.

And this dragon had begun to roar.

~

Daenerys swung herself onto the back of her silver mare, her long blue and ivory robes fluttering like silk banners in the gentle breeze. Her hair was braided back with dragonbone clasps, catching the light as she turned to look one last time at the training yard below. Visenya stood tall amidst a gathering of auxiliary officers, armor gleaming in the early light, while Lyarra moved like fire through the lines, her voice sharp and clear as she led formations. The image seared itself into Daenerys’s heart, their strength and unity a constant flame.

With a final wave, she spurred her mare into motion. Jorah rode to her left, ever-vigilant, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. Ghost followed on silent paws, a snowstorm of fur and muscle, while overhead, Drakarion swept through the skies with slow, powerful wingbeats, his shadow dragging long across the waking city.

They rode through the outskirts of Astapor, where the true heart of the city was beginning to beat anew. Freedmen labored alongside seasoned builders, sweat glistening on their brows as they hoisted timber beams and chiseled stone. The acrid tang of mortar hung in the air, mingling with the scent of hot sand and hope. Scaffolding laced the half-raised skeletons of future structures, and laughter rose between the clang of hammers. There was no whip here. Only the will to build.

Their destination lay at the edge of the eastern quarter—a vast tract where chalk markings carved dreams into dust. Here, engineers and planners clustered around maps and designs drawn on parchment and in the dirt. The beginnings of an aqueduct arched like a promise above shallow trenches, its stone supports laid by careful hands. It would span the city, drawing fresh water from the river miles away, a lifeline that would feed not only homes, but bathhouses, granaries, and public squares.

Already, smaller channels were being measured out for sanitation lines—the bones of a sewer system that would spare the city from the disease and filth it had once accepted as fate. Watermills were also planned, their wheels to grind grain and draw power for future forges and looms. The idea was ambitious, perhaps mad to some, but Daenerys saw it for what it was: a foundation.

Jorah dismounted and stood beside her as she surveyed the scene. "It will take time," he said, his voice thoughtful. "But what they're building here will outlast war."

"That is the point," Daenerys murmured. Her gaze followed a line of children passing buckets of stones to builders, their faces alight with the pride of purpose. "Let Astapor become more than a place freed from chains. Let it be a home worth the struggle."

A grizzled engineer approached, wiping dust from his brow. He bowed before speaking, gesturing toward the arching frames of the aqueduct. "The bathhouses will run off a separate flow," he explained. "We plan to heat them through underground vents fed by firepits. With enough planning, we can have three operational before the season turns."

"And everyone will be welcome to them," Daenerys said firmly. "Not just the wealthy. Not just officers. The water belongs to the people."

The man nodded, a faint smile touching his lips.

Ghost prowled along the trench lines, his nose twitching, ears perked. Drakarion landed with a thud, his wings folding with a soft rustle of scales. He curled near the growing foundation, but kept his gaze on Daenerys, dark eyes alert. She reached out to stroke his shoulder, fingers brushing warm scales.

"We are building a future here, my love," she whispered, so only the dragon could hear. "One stone at a time."

The black dragon rumbled low and deep, the sound more promise than growl.

Turning back to the table of plans, Daenerys took a breath and raised her chin. The sunlight gleamed on her brow, and there was fire in her veins.

"Show me what else you've planned," she said.

She would not rule only through flame.

But through water. Through stone. Through dreams made real by calloused hands and enduring hearts.

With fire behind her, and hope ahead, Daenerys Targaryen walked into the blue-lit scaffolding of a future worth bleeding for.

~~

The sun dipped low by the time the three women reconvened at their chambers. Each bore the weight of a long day. Visenya and Lyarra were layered in dust, sweat, and the faint scent of oil and metal after hours spent drilling soldiers and training new auxiliaries. Daenerys, radiant but weary, had returned from the council chambers where she had overseen the shaping of a fledgling city government—a ruling council comprised of freedmen and trusted advisors, and the establishment of a new City Watch drawn from the populace.

Inside, their shared chamber welcomed them with the promise of water, cool linens, and the comfort of one another's presence. Lyarra and Daenerys moved together through the flickering firelight, their steps slow with the ache of the day. One by one, they began to strip away the layers of their garments, armor and linen falling in soft heaps to the floor as they made their way to the steaming bath nestled at the far end of the room. Steam curled lazily into the air like breath from a slumbering dragon, thick with the scent of herbs.

Daenerys's robe slipped from her shoulders with a silken whisper, baring sun-kissed skin that shimmered slightly in the torchlight. Lyarra’s breath caught, her violet eyes lingering on the curve of Daenerys’s spine, the smooth arch of her back. A flicker of heat stirred low in her belly—desire, yes, but also awe. The way Daenerys carried herself with effortless grace, a softness wrapped around iron.

Lyarra didn’t move for a heartbeat, then another, caught in that moment as if tethered. Her hands trembled faintly as she reached for the lacings of her own tunic, her gaze flicking once to the side where Daenerys waited with a gentle smile, eyes half-lidded in the haze of heat and affection.

Just as bare feet touched marble, a soft knock came at the door. Missandei’s voice followed, ever polite but tinged with urgency. “Your Graces, apologies, but something has been discovered. In one of the slave master’s vaults. A sword.”

Visenya, still halfway out of her armor, exchanged a glance with the others. She exhaled slowly and nodded. “I’ll go,” she said, already pulling on a long tunic. Her eyes met Lyarra’s and Daenerys’s with a lingering softness. “Don’t start without me too long.”

The chamber door closed softly behind her.

Missandei led Visenya through the palace’s winding halls, now transformed into the humming nerve centers of a city slowly being reborn. Lamps flickered in sconces, casting soft golden halos over scroll-laden tables and repurposed storerooms now filled with ledgers and maps.

In one such stone chamber, quiet and dim, a sword lay across a length of deep crimson velvet. Even at a glance, its presence commanded reverence. It was long and heavy, the kind of weapon forged for brutal legacy. The dark steel rippled like shadow and smoke, unmistakable in its craftsmanship.

Visenya stepped inside and froze. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze fixed upon the weapon. She moved forward with measured steps, the air thick with something sacred. She reached out, her fingers ghosting the length of the fuller without touching—not yet. The steel shimmered with an inner light, as if it remembered the blood it had spilled, the hands that had held it.

Recognition struck like lightning.

"Brightroar," she whispered, the name a breath of fire on her tongue.

The Lannister sword. Lost across the sea. Found not in battle, but buried in the hoard of slavers.

Her jaw clenched. Memory surged forward, sharp and furious. Ice—the Stark sword, the pride of the North, sundered and reforged into two gaudy mockeries by the very house that stood smugly atop her lover's grief. And now, their own ancestral blade had ended up abandoned. Forgotten.

"Poetic," she said, her voice low and iron-wrapped. "The lion's pride, discarded like offal."

She felt Missandei watching, respectful and silent. The girl knew the sword’s significance without words.

Visenya did not pause.

"It belongs to Lyarra," she said softly, fiercely. "It belongs to the fire in her blood. To the fury in her soul. It is justice. Not revenge."

She looked down at the blade again, vision conjuring Lyarra’s hands wielding a new form of it—not the Lannister lion reborn, but a dragon’s legacy reforged. Not for the past. For the future.

Two swords, perhaps. Bastard blades, as unyielding and wild as the woman who would wield them. A mirror to the Lannister insult. But not for show. For vengeance earned, and hope kindled.

This time, the steel would not be held in a lion's maw. It would fly on dragon wings.

Visenya turned toward the door, her pulse steady now. She would return to the others, to Lyarra—and offer her more than a blade.

She would offer her history reclaimed. A legacy reborn.

And she knew, without doubt, that Lyarra would not wield those blades as a Stark. Nor as a bastard.

But as a dragon.

The door to their chambers opened with a soft click, lamplight spilling into the warm steam rising from the bath. Daenerys and Lyarra looked up, startled but relaxed, skin gleaming and cheeks flushed from the heat. Visenya stepped through the threshold with measured steps, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the Valyrian steel greatsword.

Drakarion lifted his head from where he was curled beside Ghost, the other dragons stirring slightly in the nest of blankets and cushions by the bed. The soft padding of clawed feet followed Visenya, but she ignored all else as her eyes swept over the scene before her.

Her gaze landed first on Lyarra, rising from the bath with slow, unconscious grace, water sluicing down her bare skin, her curls damp and clinging to her flushed cheeks and shoulders. Visenya’s breath caught—not from the weight of the sword in her grip, but from the visceral pull in her chest. Desire sparked and curled like a flame low in her belly. Lyarra was fire and steel and vulnerability all at once.

Then Daenerys rose behind her sister, ethereal and radiant, water trailing over her like liquid light. Visenya’s eyes lingered—on the soft swell of breasts, the curve of hip and thigh, the way water kissed her skin like a lover. A flush crept up her neck, hunger simmering behind her violet eyes.

Lyarra blinked, confused at first, then saw what Visenya held.

"Is that..." her voice trailed off, her tone reverent.

"Brightroar," Visenya said, her voice low and husky, heavy with meaning—and desire.

Daenerys crossed to Visenya, took the sword briefly in one hand to examine it, then gently set it aside. Her other hand slid with practiced ease to Visenya’s shoulder, her fingers slipping beneath the half-fastened armor straps with a tenderness born of years of intimacy. The moment crackled with the heat of familiarity, of a shared history written in stolen glances and lingering touches.

"Let me," Daenerys murmured, her voice soft, full of affection—and promise.

Visenya exhaled, her eyes briefly closing as her lips curved into the faintest smile. She tilted her chin toward Daenerys’s touch and then caught her twin’s mouth in a kiss—deep, slow, and possessive. Her hands rose, tangling in the damp silver-blonde strands at the nape of Dany’s neck, pulling her closer as their mouths molded to one another with aching, reverent familiarity. When they broke apart, both were breathless, eyes locked, their foreheads resting together.

Only then did Daenerys resume her gentle work, slipping each piece of armor free. The clang of steel on stone was soft beneath the rising hum of their shared heartbeat. The armor fell away, piece by piece, until only silk and bare skin remained between them—twin flames burning quietly for each other in the thick, perfumed air.

Lyarra stepped out of the bath, droplets glimmering on her skin. She moved slowly, almost reverently, toward the sword laid across its cloth. Her fingers trailed along the fuller, and her breath hitched. She shivered—not from cold, but from the flood of emotion and the growing awareness of the eyes upon her, eyes that burned with longing.

It wasn’t just a sword. It was a piece of history. A legacy. A symbol. And in the presence of two women who looked at her not just with affection but with fierce, possessive desire—Lyarra felt, perhaps for the first time, like she was finally becoming someone whole.

"You're giving it to me?"

"It was never theirs," Visenya said simply. "They let it be lost. Just as they broke Ice. Let us remake it—not for lions. But for dragons."

Lyarra looked up at her, something raw and unsure in her violet eyes. Visenya stepped close, hand brushing a curl behind her ear.

"It's yours," she said.

Lyarra nodded, slowly. Then turned back to the blade.

"Then we'll make it ours. Two swords. Just like they did to Ice. But not as spoils. As purpose."

Visenya leaned in and kissed her temple.

Behind them, Daenerys had leaned against Visenya's back, arms sliding around her middle.

The three stood there in the lamplight, skin to skin, breath warm in the evening air, as dragons stirred and the stars outside the open window began to rise.

Brightroar waited, gleaming in silence, ready to be reborn.

The lamplight painted golden shadows across their skin, soft and glowing, as the three of them stood tangled together in the center of their chamber. Their naked bodies pressed together, flushed from the lingering heat of the bath, the day’s dust and exhaustion melted away into something slower, deeper. Lyarra stood in front, her chest rising and falling, her damp curls clinging to her cheeks. Behind her, both Visenya and Daenerys held her close—Daenerys's arms wrapped gently around her waist from the side, while Visenya's taller frame pressed in behind, her hands splayed across Lyarra’s stomach and hip, anchoring her. Their breasts brushed her back and shoulders, skin to skin, their warmth enveloping her in a protective cocoon.

For a long moment, they simply held one another. Visenya’s arms were strong and grounding, her fingers caressing lazy circles into Lyarra’s belly. Daenerys leaned into her side, one hand resting over Lyarra’s heart, the other reaching up to cup her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheeks, violet eyes searching Lyarra’s with such unguarded love it made her throat tighten.

Lyarra could feel herself trembling slightly. Not from fear. From the weight of what she felt. From how desperately she wanted this, how safe she felt with them—and how terrifying it was to want something so much.

She turned in Visenya’s hold until she faced them both. Their foreheads nearly touched, breath mingling, lips just shy of brushing. Their bodies molded together—hips, breasts, thighs. The friction of bare skin and rising heat made every inch of contact a quiet, burning promise. She could feel everything. And so could they.

She looked into Visenya’s eyes first. That flame, always banked just beneath the surface, now burned bright—possessive and hungry, a fire that said plainly: mine. Her protector. Her sword. And the one who looked at her like she was something precious, something worth guarding and devouring all at once.

And then she leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t long. Just lips against lips. But it was full of reverence, full of choice. Full of the need that had been growing for days. Her hands slid to Visenya’s shoulders, gripping her like a lifeline. Visenya's lips moved with hers, slow but searing, her hand sliding up Lyarra’s spine to cradle the back of her head. When she pulled back, her eyes were wide with emotion, and before doubt could creep in, she turned to Daenerys and kissed her too.

That kiss was softer. Sweeter. A slow sinking into warmth, like a hearth fire after a storm. But no less intense. Dany’s hands slipped into her hair, holding her there, deepening the kiss until Lyarra gasped against her lips. When she finally pulled back, her breath hitched. She looked between them, cheeks flushed with color, eyes suddenly shy and unsure.

“I’ve never…” she whispered. “Not like that. Not with anyone. And not—both of you—”

Visenya growled low in her throat, pulling her tighter, possessively. "You’re ours now," she whispered, mouth brushing against Lyarra’s neck, then trailing kisses down to her shoulder, nipping lightly. "Our dragonwolf. Our sister. Our fire."

Daenerys pressed against her other side, her hands caressing Lyarra’s waist and side, her mouth finding her shoulder, her collarbone, her cheek. "You’re not alone anymore. Never again. We’ll keep you. Love you. Every part of you. Fiercely."

Lyarra stood between them, her chest rising and falling like a warhorse still catching breath. Her hands trembled at their waists, fingertips grazing bare skin, but she didn’t retreat. She leaned in—slow, uncertain, but burning. Into Daenerys’s warm mouth, tasting of sweet wine and smoke. Into Visenya’s hands, callused and firm, fingers digging into her hips like she was afraid Lyarra might vanish if she didn’t hold tight enough.

“Ours,” Daenerys murmured again, her voice like silk dragging across open nerves.

“Ours,” Visenya echoed, but her voice was gravel—rough, possessive, vibrating against Lyarra’s spine.

“Always ours,” they whispered together, and Lyarra felt herself melt between them, her legs barely holding her weight.

Daenerys’s touch was reverent, as if rediscovering her, every pass of her fingers like a benediction. She circled behind Lyarra, arms sliding around her waist until their breasts met—soft, flushed, nipples hard from the heat blooming between them. Her lips brushed the curve of Lyarra’s neck, tongue darting out to taste her salt-slick skin, trailing slow up to her jaw, warm breath spilling down her collarbone.

Visenya stepped forward, closing the distance until Lyarra was caught between them, her body overwhelmed. The taller woman’s thigh pressed between Lyarra’s legs, her hand wrapping around the back of her neck, possessive and hungry. “Feel that?” she whispered. “We’ve waited. But no more. Tonight, you stop running.”

Their mouths collided again and again—kisses stolen, then given back greedily, breath hitching as teeth nipped and lips swelled. Lyarra’s moans were muffled into Daenerys’s kiss, her head tilted back by Visenya’s fingers gripping her hair. She was shaking, aching, arousal blooming like wildfire from her core outward.

“No more holding back,” Daenerys breathed, lips brushing Lyarra’s ear.

Visenya’s eyes glowed in the dim candlelight, gaze locked on Lyarra’s. “Tonight, you’re truly ours.”

Lyarra’s laugh broke the tension, breathless and giddy with nerves. But she didn’t resist as Daenerys guided her backward with slow, sure hands. Each step was a surrender. Each breath a prayer.

When the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, she didn’t hesitate. She let herself fall, caught by silken sheets and strong hands. Visenya followed immediately, her body pressing Lyarra down, bare skin against bare skin, their nipples brushing and catching, stomachs slick with sweat and heat. Her thigh slid between Lyarra’s legs, parting them, pressing up with firm, insistent pressure.

Lyarra gasped, arching, grinding instinctively against her, and Daenerys climbed onto the bed beside them, her mouth immediately seeking out Lyarra’s shoulder, trailing down to the crook of her arm, then lower.

The scent of them filled the room—sweat and salt, arousal thick and sweet.

Daenerys’s fingers stroked up along Lyarra’s ribs, featherlight touches that made her tremble. She circled the underside of one breast, then cupped it fully, thumb flicking over a hardened nipple until Lyarra moaned again, softer this time, pleading.

Visenya’s mouth found hers again, devouring her groan. Her hand slid down Lyarra’s side, dragging nails gently over taut muscle, gripping the swell of her hip before finally—finally—slipping between her thighs.

Lyarra gasped at the first contact, jerking into the touch. Visenya was slow, deliberate. She stroked through slick folds, circling, teasing, her thumb grazing Lyarra’s clit only when she was sure it would make her cry out.

Daenerys moved lower, her hair brushing across Lyarra’s belly. Her lips kissed the underside of her breast, tongue curling around the nipple before drawing it into her mouth. She sucked gently, then with more purpose, lips swollen with hunger, until Lyarra’s hands clawed into her hair.

Visenya watched her come undone, two fingers finally sliding into Lyarra’s aching heat, slow and deep. Lyarra’s hips bucked helplessly, her breath catching on a high, broken sound—"Ahhhnn, fuck—gods!"

“Good girl,” Visenya whispered, curling her fingers inside, thumb pressing down. “Just like that. Let us hear you.”

Lyarra writhed, overwhelmed, her thighs tensing around Visenya’s wrist. Her cries were loud now, open, gasping. Daenerys kissed her breast harder, nipping at the swollen peak before trailing down further, mouthing along Lyarra’s belly until her lips hovered just above where Visenya’s fingers moved in slick, wet circles.

But she didn’t take over. Not yet. Instead, she leaned over, kissing Visenya deeply, sharing Lyarra’s taste between them as her hand slid down between Visenya’s own legs.

Visenya hissed into the kiss as Daenerys’s fingers found her wet and needy. Their rhythm matched—Daenerys working Visenya while Visenya pushed Lyarra closer and closer to the edge.

Lyarra’s body arched sharply, head tossed back against the pillows. Her moans turned into sobs of pleasure, fingers fisting the sheets.

“Don’t stop—fuck, don’t—” she whimpered.

And they didn’t.

Visenya’s fingers thrust harder, faster, curling, grinding. Daenerys’s mouth returned to Lyarra’s nipple, tugging with teeth just as the climax slammed through her. Lyarra cried out, voice breaking, hips lifting off the bed, her whole body clenching around Visenya’s fingers.

Visenya kissed her hard, swallowing her cries, riding the aftershocks with every twitch of Lyarra’s body. Then she groaned herself—Daenerys's fingers had never stopped, and now Visenya came with a violent shudder, her own moan muffled against Lyarra’s throat.

Only when they both stilled did Daenerys press her lips to Lyarra’s, slow and deep, her tongue sweeping inside like she meant to carve a home there.

The bed was chaos—sheets rumpled and soaked, limbs tangled. Lyarra’s body was loose, every nerve buzzing, her thighs still twitching from aftershocks.

Visenya lay against her side, mouth trailing kisses from shoulder to jaw, murmuring, “You’re ours, now and forever.”

Daenerys nestled on the other side, hand cupping Lyarra’s breast, thumb stroking lazily. “We’ll never let you go.”

Lyarra, breathless and limp, managed only one whisper, but it was enough.

“Yours.”

The aftermath of pleasure left their bodies slick and glowing, a tangle of limbs and breath. The sounds in the chamber—rustling sheets, soft sighs, the quiet brush of lips across damp skin—held the charged hush of something sacred.

Lyarra lay cradled between them, her body still thrumming, every nerve awake and desperate to give in return. She turned her face toward Daenerys, whose smile was soft and unreadable, lips swollen from kisses, violet eyes half-lidded with lingering desire but still wanting.

Lyarra blinked, flushed and panting, and whispered, “You didn’t—” her voice rough, hoarse, but heavy with meaning.

Daenerys’s smile deepened, wistful. “I wanted you first.”

Behind her, Visenya’s arm slid under Lyarra’s waist, lifting her slightly as she growled low in her throat. “Then give her what she deserves,” she murmured, voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. “She took you apart. Now it’s your turn. Don’t hesitate.”

Lyarra swallowed, her muscles aching in the most delicious ways, her mind swimming with heat. She rose onto her elbow, looking down at Daenerys, who had reclined on her back now, silver hair wild across the pillow, thighs slightly parted, skin glistening in the dim candlelight. Lyarra’s breath caught—gods, she was beautiful. Sacred.

Tentatively, she leaned down, kissing Daenerys’s collarbone, her lips awkward but earnest, a slow drag of mouth across skin as she tried to imitate what had been done to her. Daenerys moaned softly, hand sliding into Lyarra’s hair, encouraging.

“Good,” Visenya whispered, lips brushing Lyarra’s ear. Her hand gripped Lyarra’s hip, fingers pressing deep enough to bruise. “But don’t be afraid to taste her. Take your time. Let her feel everything you want to give.”

Lyarra’s kisses traveled lower—down the curve of Daenerys’s breast, over the arch of her ribs. Her mouth lingered at each nipple, lips warm, tongue clumsy at first, but when Daenerys gasped and arched her back, Lyarra felt a rush of confidence.

“Yes…” Daenerys breathed, voice fragile as spun glass.

“Don’t stop,” Visenya said from behind, her tone commanding. She sat up, her hand sliding down Lyarra’s back to guide her lower. “Lower. Kiss her belly. Lick just above her cunt—slow. Draw it out. Make her beg.”

Lyarra obeyed, heart pounding, her mouth trailing down to Daenerys’s navel, flicking her tongue across it. She looked up, meeting Daenerys’s gaze for a brief second—eyes wide and vulnerable—and then she went lower.

The scent of Daenerys’s arousal hit her hard—sweet, intoxicating, uniquely her. Lyarra kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, her hands trembling again but this time with urgency. She hesitated only once more, her mouth hovering just above slick folds, the heat rising from between Daenerys’s legs like a promise.

“Now,” Visenya ordered, her voice low and urgent. “Lick her.”

Lyarra obeyed.

Her tongue dragged slowly up Daenerys’s slit, and the sound Daenerys made—a breathy gasp and a sharp intake—made her heart stutter. She did it again, more confidently, this time flattening her tongue and pressing in harder. She circled Daenerys’s clit hesitantly, then flicked over it, uncertain until Daenerys’s hips bucked and her hand tightened in Lyarra’s hair.

“Fuck—yes, right there—don’t stop,” Daenerys moaned, her voice breaking into that high-pitched edge that Lyarra recognized from her own unraveling.

Lyarra doubled down, suckling gently at the swollen bud, her hands pressing down on Daenerys’s thighs to hold her open. Her mouth moved with increasing desperation, driven by Daenerys’s every whimper, every twist of hips. Her inexperience gave way to raw instinct—devotion turning into hunger.

Behind her, Visenya’s hand never stopped touching her. She slid her fingers between Lyarra’s ass cheeks, stroking the slick skin, dipping teasingly between folds, never enough to distract—just enough to remind her who she belonged to.

“That’s it,” Visenya growled. “She’s shaking. Can you feel it? She’s close.”

Lyarra moaned against Daenerys’s clit, the vibration making her lover cry out. Her tongue circled, then flattened, flicking faster. She pushed one hand lower, fingers sliding along Daenerys’s entrance, and when she pressed two inside—tight, velvet-slick heat clenching around them—Daenerys screamed.

Her hips rose sharply, thighs trembling, and her whole body seized in climax. “Lyarra—Lyarra, yes—fuck—!”

Lyarra kept licking, not stopping, even as Daenerys trembled, even as her fingers clenched and legs wrapped tight around her head. Daenerys’s orgasm rolled through her in waves, hips grinding against Lyarra’s face as if trying to merge with her entirely.

When at last Daenerys slumped back, body loose and gasping for breath, Lyarra lifted her head slowly. Her mouth and chin glistened. Her eyes were wide, reverent. She kissed Daenerys’s thigh again, gently this time, and crawled up to lie beside her.

Visenya’s hand gripped Lyarra’s jaw, turning her face toward hers. Her lips crashed against Lyarra’s, tasting Daenerys on her tongue, dominating the kiss.

“You learn fast,” she murmured, pulling away just enough to bite Lyarra’s lower lip.

Daenerys’s hand slid up to Lyarra’s shoulder, pulling her close, her voice soft and wrecked. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Lyarra blinked, still breathless. “I didn’t know if I was doing it right.”

Daenerys laughed, breathless and dizzy. “You did.”

They curled into one another, sweat cooling, the air between them still charged. Visenya pulled both women close, draping a possessive arm across their waists, her fingers still idly exploring Lyarra’s curves like she couldn’t stop touching her.

In the silence that followed, Daenerys whispered, “This is just the beginning.”

And Visenya smiled against Lyarra’s neck. “Next time, you’ll beg for us.”

Lyarra blushed furiously—but her smile was feral. “Promise?”

Their laughter rose together, low and breathless, as night thickened around the three of them, bodies entangled, fire banked but never extinguished.

And the city outside slept, never knowing that in the heart of the dragon’s den, something far more dangerous than war had begun.

~~

The late morning sun spilled through the gauzy silk curtains like warm honey, catching in the fine sheen of sweat still clinging to bare skin. The sheets were tangled beneath the slow rise and fall of their breaths, and the scent of sex and dragonfire lingered thick in the air—an intimate, primal incense that filled every breath with memory.

Lyarra stirred first, her body aching with that delicious, low-simmering soreness that came not from wounds or training, but from being touched, tasted, worshipped. Her face was pressed against soft, sun-warmed skin, and as her eyes blinked open, she realized Visenya was sprawled half atop her—her taller, stronger form draped over Lyarra like armor.

Their thighs were intertwined, the slick glide of bare skin sending a slow thrill through her belly as she shifted, just enough to feel the press of breasts against hers, the faint tug of nipples hardening with renewed awareness. Visenya’s arm was tight around her waist, her hand splayed across Lyarra’s belly in a grip that was unmistakably possessive. She didn’t just hold—she claimed.

Daenerys lay curled to Lyarra’s other side, her silver hair spread like spun starlight across the pillows. One soft hand rested just below Lyarra’s ribs, her thumb tracing slow circles, soothing and grounding. But her lips—gods, her lips—found Lyarra’s cheek and then the corner of her mouth, feather-light kisses that ignited everything all over again.

Visenya stirred, nuzzling into Lyarra’s neck with a deep, contented hum. Her voice was rasped from moans and growls, thick with sleep and hunger. “Good morning, dragonwolf,” she murmured, the name spoken like a promise.

Lyarra turned her head just enough to brush their noses together, only for Daenerys to catch her mouth in a kiss—soft, slow, tasting of heat and affection and want. It was reverent. Not desperate like the night before, but no less intense. There was no fear now, no holding back, just the undeniable truth that had bloomed between them like fire across dry grass: she was theirs, and they were hers.

Her heart pounded beneath their touches, her instincts—long honed to keep walls high and emotions hidden—utterly undone. She leaned into it. Into them. Her hands sought skin, trailing over waists and ribs, fingers tangling briefly in Visenya’s hair, then Daenerys’s. Her lips pressed kisses wherever she could reach—forehead, jaw, shoulder—and she breathed them in like she never wanted to let go.

They stayed that way for long, golden minutes, a knot of heat and limbs, of quiet breaths and brushing mouths. The sun could never match their warmth.

Eventually, it was Visenya who rose first. Unashamed, she moved with the lazy, predatory grace of a lioness stretching in her den—back arched, muscles shifting beneath pale skin kissed with faint scars, the curve of her breasts catching the light. Lyarra watched, transfixed. Visenya’s body was carved like the blade she wielded—elegant, lethal, breathtaking.

She turned to the pile of fine silks and soft leathers near the edge of the bed and selected a deep crimson tunic. Instead of slipping it over her own shoulders, she turned and tossed it to Lyarra with a smirk. “It’ll look better on you.”

Lyarra caught it clumsily, blinking down at the fabric. It was soft, heavier than it looked, and still faintly carried Visenya’s scent—leather, steel, fire, and something dark and clean that was purely her. She hesitated.

Visenya saw the pause and crossed the space between them in two steps. Her hands came up, slow and sure, slipping the tunic over Lyarra’s head with an ease that felt like ritual. Her palms trailed down Lyarra’s arms as the garment fell into place, fingertips brushing the sides of her breasts, the soft skin of her waist, lingering at her hips.

The tunic was too large. It slipped low off one shoulder, baring skin still marked with faint lovebites. The hem only barely reached the tops of her thighs. And the sight of Lyarra—messy-haired, flushed from sleep, bare-legged and barefoot, smelling of sex and wrapped in her clothes—made Visenya’s breath catch.

Her fingers curled possessively into the fabric at Lyarra’s waist, tugging her closer. Her voice was a growl, hot against Lyarra’s throat. “Gods, you have no idea how much I want to see you wearing nothing but my clothes. Every day. Every gods-damned day.”

Lyarra shivered, the tunic whispering against her nipples as they hardened beneath it, barely concealed. Visenya stepped back half a pace, just to look—her gaze molten, devouring.

Then Daenerys joined them.

She was already dressed, though just barely—her pale blue gown clung to her curves like water, the fabric sheer in places, designed to suggest rather than hide. The neckline dipped low, dangerously low, one breast almost fully exposed, the round curve of it taut and flushed, nipple just grazing the line of the fabric with every breath she took. A soft breeze stirred the silk, making the gown shift and ripple, teasing at full exposure without ever quite delivering it.

Lyarra couldn’t stop staring.

Daenerys stepped up behind her, one hand reaching forward to smooth Lyarra’s hair back, fingers brushing her jaw, her gaze soft but full of want. “You look…” she bit her lip, eyes lingering where the tunic clung to Lyarra’s breasts. “Perfect.”

Visenya’s smirk was back, darker now, her eyes locked on Lyarra’s bare thighs beneath the too-short tunic, her scent still rising off the fabric. “She looks fuckable,” she said, voice husky with possessive hunger. “Like she belongs to me.”

Lyarra’s breath hitched—gods, her core pulsed at that.

Daenerys leaned in, whispering against her ear, “She belongs to both of us.”

Visenya reached for the hem of the tunic, slipping her fingers just underneath, knuckles brushing the crease of Lyarra’s thigh. “Mine first,” she purred, and kissed her—rough, hungry, devouring.

And Lyarra, caught between silk and fire, between hands that held and mouths that claimed, let herself burn all over again.

~

Together, they descended through the palace, Brightroar wrapped in cloth and held carefully in Visenya’s arms. Their dragons padded behind them in formation, shadows of grace and menace—Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx, all alert and protective. Ghost walked close to Lyarra, his pale fur brushing her leg with every step. Little Nira curled atop his back, chirping now and then, wings flaring in lazy satisfaction.

The forge loomed ahead, heat radiating from its heart. But it was the weight of the sword they carried and the bond they shared that made the air feel thick with meaning.

They were not just lovers now. They were a force of nature. A union shaped by desire, fire, and trust—with a legacy still to be forged.

The forge was already alive when they arrived, the heat pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the stone floor. The scent of smoke, hot iron, and dragonfire wrapped around them like a cloak of destiny.

Daenerys walked with graceful confidence, her blue dress clinging to her curves like flowing water, its soft silk whispering with each step. The fabric shimmered in the forge light, making her seem lit from within. Beside her, Lyarra wore one of Visenya’s red tunics, loose at the shoulders and cinched at the waist, hanging mid-thigh and doing little to hide the lean muscle and countless scars that marked her as a warrior. The tunic smelled faintly of ash and Visenya’s familiar scent—comforting and wild. Visenya herself was a vision of crimson and command, her own tunic sleeveless and open at the sides, her silver braid swinging with each stride.

The dragons loomed behind them, following like shadows brought to life. Drakarion stepped forward first, curling close to the open furnace, his chest beginning to glow with heat. One by one, the others joined him—Aenryx, Sylveris, Vaelyx, and little Nira, who chirped from Ghost’s back before fluttering down beside her siblings. Ghost trotted ahead and settled by the forge entrance, ever watchful.

Visenya rolled up her sleeves, her violet eyes glowing faintly with focused purpose. She pulled back the silk from Brightroar and laid the blade reverently on the anvil. “It’s time,” she said softly.

Before Lyarra could step back, she looked at Daenerys and held out the sword, her expression hesitant but hopeful. “I can have them forge two swords,” she said. “One for me, and one for you.”

Daenerys stepped forward, placing a hand over Lyarra’s and smiling gently. “No, my dragonwolf,” she said, her voice a warm balm. “You are the warrior. The sword belongs to your hand. I would never take a piece of it, not after what they did to Ice.”

Lyarra’s throat tightened, heart pounding with love and loyalty. She nodded slowly, her eyes shimmering. Visenya moved in close, her presence steady and grounding.

“Drakarion,” Visenya called.

The black dragon opened his jaws wide, a low rumble building deep in his chest. Flame spilled out in a controlled burst, bathing the forge in dragonfire hotter than any mundane furnace could ever reach. The other dragons added their fire in turn, creating a circle of molten brilliance. The heat rolled over their skin, raising goosebumps.

Visenya stepped forward, magic already coiling around her fingers. She muttered ancient Valyrian incantations, her fingertips glowing with power. With deft movements, she traced runes across the stone, each one pulsing faintly before settling into the forge’s lining. Her magic coursed up her arms and through her veins like lightning given form.

The blade began to melt, the Valyrian steel folding in on itself like living ink. Visenya guided the metal into two molds—one for a bastard sword, broad and fierce, and the other for a Northern-style single-handed blade, quick and deadly.

“These will not be ordinary blades,” Visenya murmured, her voice a soft chant. “They will be yours, Lyarra. Forged not from a lion’s greed, but from a dragon’s will.”

When the steel settled into its new forms, glowing and pulsing with magic, Visenya took her dagger and sliced a line across her palm. Blood dripped freely into the molten metal. She whispered more runes, carving them into the blades even as they cooled.

“To lighten the weight,” she breathed. “To never dull. To bite with dragon’s fire. To answer only to you.”

When the blades were drawn from their molds and quenched in oil, they shimmered with dark steel veined in molten red. They no longer resembled Brightroar. They were something wholly new.

Lyarra stepped forward, eyes wide. “They’re beautiful,” she whispered, reverent.

Visenya slid an arm around her waist. “They are yours,” she said. “And no Lannister will ever wield them again.”

Daenerys came to Lyarra’s other side, her hand resting on her shoulder, warm and grounding. The three of them stood together, bathed in the light of fire and magic, their dragons curled around the room in a protective circle. Ghost lay near Nira, both watching quietly, as if they too knew something powerful had been born.

Together, they watched legacy melt and take on new shape—a symbol of what was broken, reforged by love, fury, and fate.

~

The sun was just beginning to crest over Astapor's sandstone walls when the forge master approached their private courtyard with a wrapped bundle cradled in his arms. The scent of oil, steel, and soot clung to him like a second skin. Behind him trailed two assistants, each careful in their steps, reverent in their silence.

Lyarra stepped out into the morning light in one of Visenya's old tunics, the deep red fabric hanging loose around her frame, the sleeves rolled to the elbows and hem brushing her thighs. Her hair, still damp from their earlier bath, had been pulled into a braid that trailed over her shoulder. Daenerys and Visenya emerged behind her—Daenerys glowing in a soft white dress that shimmered like fresh snow in the rising light, and Visenya half-armored, a mix of elegant black and red leather shaped to her form, the light catching the etched dragons on her vambraces.

Their dragons loomed in the archways behind, scales gleaming in the sun. Drakarion was curled near the forge, smoke puffing idly from his nostrils, while Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx draped themselves across sun-warmed stone. Ghost padded silently alongside Nira, who flapped from perch to perch with chirping excitement before curling again around Ghost's shoulders.

The forge master bowed low, unwrapping the cloth with slow reverence to reveal two blades that gleamed like captured firelight.

The bastard sword was first, broad and imposing yet graceful in its balance. Its crossguard flared outward in the shape of dragon wings, fierce and protecting. The grip was wrapped in soft grey leather that had been darkened with oils, molded to the hand. The pommel bore the carved head of a wolf, snarling with fangs bared, its eyes set with tiny dark garnets. Along the fuller ran fine Valyrian runes, glowing faintly with the magic Visenya had poured into them—runes to keep the blade light, sharp, and loyal.

The second blade was a Northern style sword, meant for one hand—sleek, fast, deadly. Its crossguard was a smooth, understated curve, and the grip matched its sibling in leather and texture. Its pommel was a simple crescent of silvered steel, but engraved on each side were flying dragons, wings spread wide, tails curved in eternal motion.

Lyarra stepped forward, hands trembling slightly as she reached for the bastard sword. As soon as her fingers curled around the grip, her breath caught. The blade felt right—like it had always been meant for her. It hummed with purpose, heavy with history but cleansed of the Lannister taint it once bore.

She lifted the sword, then drew the smaller one from the cloth. It balanced beautifully in her off hand. Together, the pair whispered of cold winters and dragonfire.

Daenerys stepped forward, eyes shimmering with pride. "What will you name them?"

Lyarra glanced at both blades, then up at the twins, her voice low but sure. "This one," she said, raising the bastard sword, "is Frostbite. For the North. For House Stark."

Then she touched the smaller blade, the curve of its pommel glinting. "And this is Emberfang. For the fire I follow now. For the blood I’ve claimed."

Visenya moved to her side, her arms slipping around Lyarra’s waist from behind, her chin resting on her shoulder, silver hair spilling forward to mix with Lyarra’s darker locks. "They’re perfect. Like you."

Daenerys stepped closer, reaching to press her palm to Lyarra’s chest where her heart thundered beneath her tunic. "You are ours. As these swords are yours."

The dragons stirred as if sensing the moment’s weight, their low rumbles vibrating through the courtyard like distant thunder. Nira climbed back to her place around Lyarra's shoulders, chirping happily as her small tail flicked against Lyarra’s cheek. Ghost pressed close to her leg, a silent shadow of unwavering loyalty.

And so she stood—between love and fire, loyalty and rebirth, a warrior made whole. The blades were hers now. Not forged in lion's gold, but in dragon flame and wolf’s blood. Born anew with purpose. And this time, they would never be stolen, never wielded by anyone but her.

~~

The war council convened in the long shaded hall just after the midday heat began to wane. Maps were spread across the carved table, weighted down by stones, cups of water, and pieces of Astapor's broken chains. Torchlight flickered against sandstone walls, casting deep shadows around the gathered leaders. The air was thick with heat and anticipation, tension mingling with the scent of ink, sweat, and faint spice drifting through the breeze-cooled windows.

Lyarra stood beside Visenya, both women armed but lightly dressed in tunics and trousers, their presence commanding despite their simple garb. Lyarra wore one of Visenya's crimson tunics, slightly too large on her frame, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her new bastard sword, reforged from Brightroar, rested in a sheath slung across her back, while the companion Northern-style sword hung at her hip. The weight of Valyrian steel gave her a grounded poise, a silent challenge in the tilt of her chin. Visenya was dressed in fitted dark trousers and a slate-grey tunic embroidered with a coiling dragon, Dark Sister sheathed at her side, her silver hair twisted into a long braid. Her hand rested low on Lyarra’s back, fingers brushing slow circles through the fabric of the tunic, grounding and possessive in equal measure. Every movement between them spoke of a closeness forged in fire.

Daenerys sat at the head of the table in a flowing blue gown, her braid coiled like a crown behind her head. She was both ruler and heart, her expression firm yet compassionate. Her presence was the calm in the eye of the storm. Her hand had lingered in Lyarra’s longer than necessary when they entered, and Visenya had leaned in to press a kiss to Daenerys’s cheek in silent greeting. There was no hiding their bond—no desire to hide it. The way they stood close, shared glances, and brushed fingertips along arms or backs in passing made their affection as much a part of the room as the map or blades at their hips.

Missandei sat to Daenerys’s right with parchment and ink, prepared to record every decision. She was sharp and observant, offering insight when prompted. Grey Worm stood stoic nearby, flanked by several of his most experienced Unsullied officers, while auxiliary leaders—once slaves, now soldiers—watched the royal trio with awe and growing confidence. Jorah and Arstan, seasoned and silent, lingered at the edge of the gathering like sentinels.

Visenya began the council, her voice low and rich. She traced a finger along the map as she spoke. "Yunkai’s defenses are dated. Their walls are tall but brittle, their strength not in stone but in coin. Bribes and sellswords hold the gates shut. If we strike fast and coordinated, we can break their resolve before they understand what’s coming."

Lyarra leaned over the map beside her, their arms brushing, her gaze sharp. "A traditional siege gives them time to stall or gather allies. But they’re exposed. Their terrain offers no shelter. Our Unsullied will form the central advance, disciplined and relentless. But the auxiliaries—we hold them in reserve, hidden until the battle is fully engaged. When the enemy is focused on the Unsullied, we strike from the flanks and rear with fresh forces."

Visenya nodded, her fingers sliding along Lyarra’s forearm in silent agreement. Their eyes met briefly, a spark passing between them that Daenerys watched with a gentle smile.

"The mercenaries of Yunkai may hold longer than expected," warned one of the auxiliary captains, a wiry woman with a curved scar across her cheek.

"Mercenaries bleed for coin," Lyarra replied coolly. "They don’t die for cities they don’t love. When our strike comes, fast and overwhelming, they’ll crumble."

Daenerys watched them, chin resting on her knuckles. After a moment, she spoke, voice calm but with steel beneath. "We do this for justice, not conquest. We free, not enslave. We do not become the tyrants we seek to cast down. The people of Yunkai must know that dragons are fire, yes—but also light."

Visenya inclined her head. "Then we send envoys before the storm. A chance to surrender. To free their slaves and open their gates."

Lyarra, still standing close, her hand now resting atop Daenerys’s, added, "And if they refuse, we rain fire and steel."

Missandei looked up from her scroll. "What name do we give this, Your Graces?"

Daenerys looked from Lyarra to Visenya, her smile blooming. She reached out and curled her fingers around theirs. "Call it what it is: Liberation."

Visenya pressed a lingering kiss to Lyarra’s shoulder, through the thin tunic that still bore the scent of ash and steel. Lyarra leaned into her, her breath shallow, eyes shining with quiet certainty. Daenerys rose from her seat and took both their hands, pulling them close until they stood together, their shared warmth echoing like a heartbeat in the flickering hall.

To the gathered officers, it was unity. Strength. Strategy.

But to the three of them, it was something more—a bond forged not just in fire and war, but in longing, love, and the promise of never again facing the world alone.

They were queens and warriors. They were heart and blade.

And Yunkai would learn what it meant to face a storm made of dragons.

~~

The gates of Astapor creaked open beneath the morning sun, casting long golden rays across the blood-red bricks of the city as the first legions began their march. Behind them, the city rang with the hammering of hammers on stone, the creak of timber scaffolds, and the rising murmur of new life: construction, commerce, and community blooming in the wake of fire and liberation.

Visenya, Daenerys, and Lyarra sat astride their horses at the head of the host, the three of them cloaked in light windbreakers to keep the sun off their shoulders, their weapons close and their expressions calm but alert. Drakarion and his siblings circled lazily above, casting wide shadows across the sands, while Ghost loped beside the horses, silent and watchful. Nira, still too young to fly, sat happily curled around Lyarra’s shoulders like a living mantle, chuffing softly as her bright eyes took in the sea of soldiers and wagons stretching into the distance. From time to time, she would flutter down to Daenerys or Visenya, trilling with delight, only to return to her perch atop Lyarra with gentle chirps and flicks of her small wings.

They were flanked by Jorah Mormont, Ser Arstan, and Strong Belwas, their weathered faces watchful. Missandei rode slightly behind, her ink-stained fingers already noting observations on the progress of the march. Her gaze was wide with wonder and pride.

"Look at them," Daenerys murmured, her voice warm with quiet pride. "Free and marching by their own will."

Ahead, the two legions of fully trained Unsullied led the column, marching with uncanny precision and discipline, their bronze caps gleaming in the sun. Their ranks moved like a single creature, unified by a thousand hearts beating to the same rhythm.

Out ahead, the scout cavalry fanned out in disciplined formations—lightly armored riders armed with javelins and short blades, trained to report and harry, not hold ground. They cut elegant lines through the sand, their mounts swift and sure-footed.

Following the disciplined phalanx of the Unsullied came the thousands of partially trained Unsullied—still formidable, still proud. Two more legions’ worth of men, their officers shouting orders as they marched to the drumbeats of progress, the sun glinting off the points of their spears.

Behind them rolled the auxiliary cohorts. Formed into independent commands and disciplined units, they marched with mixed weapons and armor—shields large and oval, pilums at their backs, gladii at their sides. Many wore their old clothes, stitched with new emblems of freedom, others wore gifted armor of boiled leather and bronze scale.

To the eye, they were a sea of shifting diversity, but to the mind—they were potential. Six thousand strong in infantry, hardened by drills and faith in their new queens. 

Behind them came the slingers, in greater number than any other: eight thousand men and women trained in volley fire, loose tunics and leather bracers on their arms. Their pouches rattled with smoothed lead and stone, and their discipline showed in the way they marched, ready to rain death when called.

The auxiliary crossbow cohorts followed next—two thousand sharp-eyed fighters trained to fire in rotating ranks. Their bolts glinted in the sun like the teeth of some ancient beast. Slow to reload, but devastating when launched in waves.

Then came the steel wagons—covered, concealed, holding the army's siege might. Scorpio bolts, ballistas, and the wide-bellied onagers for siege. Visenya had overseen their construction herself, drawing on memories of Roman histories and Valyrian siege doctrines. Runes had been etched in secret, marks of power to strengthen wood and lighten weight, relics of her hidden magic.

Finally, the baggage train stretched far into the horizon—cooks, smiths, healers, scribes, builders, and all the multitude needed to support the dragon host. Tents, medical supplies, field kitchens, even mobile forges—all rumbled forward.

From her saddle, Lyarra watched it all with sharp eyes. She felt the weight of it—not just in numbers, but in meaning. This was no warband. No feuding noble host.

This was an army. Their army.

Visenya’s hand found hers atop the saddlehorn, squeezing it with a quiet strength. Daenerys leaned slightly in her saddle, her presence a balm against the simmering tension in Lyarra’s chest.

They were all dressed for the march—Daenerys in a flowing blue riding robe that caught the wind behind her, Visenya in dark leathers with crimson accents and her silver dragon necklace glinting at her throat. Lyarra wore one of Visenya’s red tunics, slightly too large for her frame, cinched at the waist with a dark leather belt. Her new bastard sword sat across her back, the northern-style blade at her hip.

Nira chirped and shifted, stretching out over Lyarra’s shoulder like a lazy feline, tail draping down her chest. The young dragon nuzzled Visenya’s hand before curling again, clearly content.

For a long time, the three watched in silence. Every once in a while, one of them would reach out, touching a hand, brushing a knee, offering and accepting wordless comfort.

And then Lyarra spoke, her voice low. "They’ll see us coming."

Visenya smiled, sharp and sure. "Let them try to stop us."

Daenerys, her eyes bright with fire and mercy, murmured, "Let them feel what it is to face dragons."

The army of liberation moved forward. The world would never be the same again.

~

As the sun dipped low and painted the sky in deep crimsons and molten gold, the first day's march came to an end. The army of liberation halted upon a plateau ringed by low hills and wind-stirred trees, the distant horizon stained with the glow of dying light. No orders were shouted, none needed—discipline was in their bones. The Unsullied moved like the gears of a war machine, trained to react with precision the moment their boots stopped marching.

The camp did not rise as a single, chaotic sprawl. Instead, under the strategic foresight of their queens, it took form as a calculated array of interconnected strongpoints—structured, defensible, and linked by carefully measured causeways. The Unsullied formed the outermost perimeter, their experience in field fortifications evident as they dug wide, sloped ditches to stymie cavalry charges, lined with fire-hardened stakes. Palisades followed, hammered into place with silent efficiency, reinforced by cross-braced timbers and braced platforms for lookouts.

At regular intervals, watchtowers rose—prefabricated sections from the supply wagons assembled in moments, offering elevated views of the surrounding terrain. Torches were lit in lanterns with smoked glass, giving off dim light without sacrificing night vision.

The auxiliary infantry, under the guidance of centurions trained by Visenya and Lyarra themselves, began constructing forts modeled on the ancient Roman castra—rectangular, symmetrical, and segmented by roadways and defensive walls. Trenches were dug swiftly, ramparts built with layered earth and timber. Each unit’s section was cordoned, its tents laid out in ordered rows, and supply caches established with marked access points.

Visenya, her crimson tunic streaked with dust and sweat, strode through the auxiliary camp like a commander from legend. She inspected the alignment of fort gates, the elevation of berms, and the integrity of the ramparts. Where she saw weakness, she offered correction; where she saw strength, she gave nods of approval and rare, firm praise. Her voice carried not just authority, but purpose, weaving in echoes of Valyrian generals and Roman tacticians she had studied as Victoria. Her hands gestured over drawn maps, her eyes never idle.

Lyarra moved with equal focus, her gaze sharp and her movements steady. She oversaw the sparring rings that had been hastily erected within the inner courtyards of each cohort’s camp. Even after the exhausting march, she put auxiliary decurions through their paces, sparring one after the other with fluid grace and relentless force. Her bastard sword shimmered under torchlight, leaving those she trained with in awed silence. To be acknowledged by her—even with a grunt and a nod—became a badge of honor.

Daenerys glided through the support lines like a queen of light amid toil. She ensured the healers’ tents were well-stocked, spoke gently to the weary, and saw that every soldier, even the newest recruit, received food and clean water. She took stock of the camp's sanitation trenches, directing adjustments with calm authority. Her words soothed, her touch comforted, and wherever she passed, burdens seemed lighter. Children of the newly freed clung to her skirts, drawing smiles from passing auxiliaries.

When they regrouped at the command pavilion—a reinforced central tent they stood shoulder to shoulder, sweat-streaked and battle-minded. Around them, the camp pulsed with organized life. Ghost prowled the outermost paths, a spectral warden of ivory fur, while the dragons—Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx—rested on the earth nearby. Nira, smaller and brighter-eyed, curled in a protective nest of wings and tails, having flitted between her mothers all evening.

Orders were dispatched through practiced chains of command. Grey Worm saw to the Unsullied’s rotating watches, posted sentries at each gate, and oversaw night drills. The auxiliary commanders worked their centurions and decurions, organizing their watches and logistics with newfound confidence. Missandei worked by firelight in the pavilion, taking notes and writing correspondences, the flame catching on the gold embroidery of her sleeves. Though tireless in her work, she barely stifled yawns. It was Daenerys who, noticing the dark circles under her young eyes, gently closed the ledger she was writing in.

"Enough for tonight, Missandei. You've done more than enough," Daenerys said, her voice warm but firm.

Visenya nodded in agreement. "You're not our servant. You’re our scribe, and our companion. Rest, before your candle burns out."

Lyarra gave a quiet smile from her seat, nudging over a folded blanket. “Tomorrow will be just as long.”

Missandei blinked in surprise, then offered them a grateful, slightly shy smile. “Thank you, Your Graces. I will.”

They didn’t try to mother her. But they looked after her—for her own sake, not just because she was useful.

By the time the moon climbed its arc into the star-drenched sky, the encampment had transformed into a fortress of discipline and purpose. Not merely a place to rest—but a bulwark, a declaration. This was no wandering host.

This was a legion on the move. This was the will of dragons made flesh.

The sky above the fortified camp had turned to deep indigo, stars pricking through the veil of dusk like scattered pinpricks of silver. The faint murmur of the legion settling into night echoed faintly beyond the pavilion, guards at their posts and patrols rotating on schedule. The torchlight cast warm flickers along the heavy canvas walls as Visenya, Daenerys, and Lyarra stepped quietly into their tent, the day behind them and the comforts of closeness ahead.

Though it was a commander’s tent, it was not sprawling—just large enough to house the essentials: a reinforced chest for maps and records, a few small crates doubling as stools and tables, and a wide bedroll thick with layered pelts and furs. It was a shared space, both intimate and spartan, a quiet refuge from the weight of leadership.

Their dragons were already there. Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx had curled up together in a corner of the bedroll, forming a protective nest of scales and wings. Ghost had claimed a spot nearby, watchful but calm, his head resting atop his paws. Nira, ever curious and fiercely affectionate, had climbed up onto the tangle of furs, circling twice before tucking herself between her mothers’ places, right in the middle.

Swords were unbelted and laid to rest at the edge of the bedroll. Visenya set down Dark Sister, its hilt gleaming in the lamplight. Beside it, Lyarra placed Frostbite and Emberfang.

There was no need for words as they helped each other undress. Tunics were gently unfastened, belts unbuckled, leather stripped away with a tenderness that held the weight of longing. Daenerys moved with a soft, affectionate smile, brushing stray curls back from Lyarra’s forehead before pressing a slow, lingering kiss there, lips warm against her skin. Visenya’s hands lingered longer still at Lyarra’s shoulders, fingers trailing in a possessive reverence before she leaned in, mouth finding Lyarra’s with a kiss that whispered of safety, of fire banked yet always ready to flare. Lyarra melted into it, her hands gripping Visenya’s sides, unsteady but willing.

From a carved wooden basin, they soaked cloths in cool, clean water and began to wash away the sweat and dirt of the day. Daenerys took her time, her fingers gliding over Lyarra’s face and neck, not just to clean but to learn the shape of her. Visenya’s touch was more deliberate, her strokes across Lyarra’s back slow and firm, grounding her. Lyarra breathed deep under their hands, tension ebbing from her frame.

When Daenerys turned, Lyarra wordlessly took up another cloth and cleaned her in return, hands soft and reverent, though her cheeks flushed at the closeness. She followed the curve of Daenerys’s shoulder and side, her movements unsure but thorough, gaze flicking from task to the soft curve of skin, the quiet rise and fall of breath. Visenya watched them both, a flicker of desire in her gaze as she gently ran the cloth across Lyarra’s arms, her free hand resting low at her waist, possessive and steadying.

There was no rush between them—only the quiet thrum of desire, of a bond forged not only in fire and war, but in every quiet moment where hands met skin and chose to linger. Touches drifted into caresses, lips found shoulders and cheeks, lingering longer than necessary but never unwelcome. The warmth between them had turned into something slow-burning and profound, a hunger shaped by tenderness and tempered by love.

Visenya’s mouth ghosted across Lyarra’s jaw, her hands sliding down to the curve of her waist, pulling her back until their bodies aligned. Daenerys leaned forward, brushing her lips over Lyarra’s collarbone with the same reverence she might offer to a holy relic. Lyarra, caught between them, let out a breathless sound, overwhelmed and grounded all at once, her hands seeking both of them in return, fingertips memorizing skin and shape.

They lay down together then, limbs entwining with the ease of routine and the heat of long-held yearning. Lyarra found herself beneath Visenya's arm and against Daenerys’s chest, the pair wrapping around her like a claim. No rank, no titles, no burdens of command—just three hearts steady in rhythm, surrounded by the soft murmur of the dragons nearby and the rustle of breath against skin.

Outside, the night stood watch.

Inside, they did not merely hold each other. They belonged to each other.

 

Chapter 14: XIV

Summary:

Siege of Yunkai.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XIV

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

A week had passed since the Dragon's army had departed from the gates of Astapor. The road behind them had been long, dusty, and sun-baked, but the path ahead now stretched to the yellow walls of Yunkai. Rumors had raced ahead of them, and the slavers of the so-called Yellow City had not been idle.

Their scouts had reported a Yunkish host ahead—five thousand slave soldiers, poorly equipped and hastily drilled, with at least a thousand mercenaries split between the Second Sons and the Stormcrows. The mercenary cavalry had bows and lances, not in numbers enough to break the Unsullied legions, but more than sufficient to wound and harass.

To draw the Yunkish into underestimating them, the trio had left the bulk of the Auxiliary forces several miles behind, bringing only their two Unsullied legions and a pair of slinger cohorts into sight. It was a calculated deception, one Visenya had crafted with care, and both Daenerys and Lyarra had agreed without hesitation.

Now the three rode forward ahead of their vanguard, flanked by Ser Jorah and a small honor guard of Unsullied, the banners of House Targaryen snapping in the breeze.

Daenerys sat straight-backed on her silver mare, her expression calm, but her violet eyes sharp as they swept over the enemy formation in the distance. "They like to talk, the slavers," she said softly. "Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent. Invite the captains of the sellsword companies to call on me as well. The Stormcrows at midday, the Second Sons two hours after. Not together."

"As you wish," Ser Jorah replied, studying the horizon with narrowed eyes. "And if they do not come—"

"They will," Dany said firmly. "They'll want to see the dragons. And they'll want to measure the woman who commands them."

She turned her horse sharply and rode back toward the heart of their encampment, Visenya and Lyarra beside her, their presence a silent but constant reassurance. Lyarra's bastard sword glinted faintly on her back, while Visenya's hand rested on Dark Sister's hilt. They didn’t need to speak to be in agreement.

Their pavilion was waiting, pitched on a rise that overlooked the freshly dug trenches and palisades of the camp. Arstan Whitebeard stood outside, impassive and watchful. Nearby, Strong Belwas sat cross-legged in the grass, devouring a bowl of ripe figs with sticky fingers.

Inside, the air was thick with incense Missandei had lit to sweeten the heat-heavy air. She moved with quiet grace, arranging scrolls and cushions in preparation for the evening's talks.

The dragons lounged at their leisure. Drakarion and Sylveris were curled together atop a mound of silk cushions beside Ghost, the direwolf snoring lightly. Aenryx sat nearby, eyes half-lidded but alert. Vaelyx flitted across the room in a flutter of restless energy, teasing Nira, who was growing bolder by the day and now tackled her elder brother with sharp little squeals.

Daenerys seated herself on a wide cushion, her legs folding neatly beneath her as Aenryx rose and padded to her side, golden wings shifting. She scratched the dragon affectionately behind his horns, watching as he leaned into her touch.

"Missandei," she asked, "what tongue will the Yunkai'i speak?"

"Valyrian, Your Grace. A different dialect than Astapor’s, but close enough. They call themselves the Wise Masters."

"Wise," Dany murmured. "We shall see how wise they truly are."

She glanced toward the entrance of the tent, where the shadows of Visenya and Lyarra moved just beyond the canvas. War was coming.

And the dragons were ready.

~

As the mid-day sun began to sink from its blazing zenith, casting longer shadows over the Dragon’s camp, Daenerys, Visenya, and Lyarra gathered once again in the command pavilion. With them were Arstan Whitebeard, Grey Worm, and two of the most promising auxiliary commanders chosen from among the freedmen. The atmosphere was thick with dust, heat, and sharpened purpose.

They had already hosted the leaders of the Second Sons and the Stormcrows separately earlier in the day. Though they had spoken politely enough, none among the trio truly expected the mercenaries to change their allegiance. Still, the meetings bought them precious time and confusion among their enemies.

Afterward, the Wise Masters of Yunkai sent a delegate to treat with them. Arrogant and oozing disdain, the man had offered them chests of gold, gems, and silks if they would simply turn away. Daenerys had refused him coolly. The Dragon’s Host would not be bought.

Now, the final plans were being laid.

"Without cavalry of our own, the mercenary lancers are our greatest concern," Arstan said gravely. "They will seek to shatter our ranks or ride down our exposed auxiliaries."

"They shall find no easy prey in the Unsullied," Grey Worm said with calm certainty. "We will hold the center."

"And more," Visenya added, leaning over the map they had spread between them, the glow of lantern light catching in her silver hair. "Our main thrust must remain concealed until the moment is right. We must make the slavers believe they face only our Unsullied legions."

The hill before the Yunkai camp was broad and open, offering little cover once the march began. A dangerous approach if not for their deception.

"I could take a cohort," Lyarra offered, her voice steady and sure. She jabbed a finger at one flank of the Yunkai position on the map. "Four to five hundred auxiliaries plus a detachment of our crossbowmen. If we move under cover and wait, we can strike hard when the Unsullied engage."

Visenya's violet eyes gleamed with approval, a fierce smile touching her lips. "A hammer from one side."

"And I will be the other," she continued, tracing the opposite flank. "I will take another cohort, and we shall pin the Yunkai between our claws."

Daenerys smiled then, the expression fierce and beautiful, her love and pride for her bondmates clear in her gaze. She reached out, brushing Lyarra’s hair from her face with a tender touch. "And I shall lead the Unsullied from the center."

A nod passed between them, silent and full of certainty.

Grey Worm stepped forward, bowing his head. "We shall not fail you, Blood of the Dragon."

Arstan smiled faintly, pride softening his lined features as he gazed at the trio, recognizing the strength that their unity brought.

Daenerys placed a hand lightly atop Lyarra's and Visenya's where they rested on the map. Visenya’s fingers curled possessively around Lyarra’s, while Daenerys leaned in even closer, their shoulders brushing, her fingers stroking gently along Lyarra’s wrist. The scent of fire-warmed skin and the weight of their bond wrapped around them like armor. "Tonight," Daenerys said, her voice low and resolute, "the Dragon’s Host will show them what it means to awaken fire and blood."

They would not wait for dawn. No, they would strike under the cover of nightfall, while the slavers and sellswords were still drunk on their arrogance and scrambling to interpret the day's meetings. The Yunkai’i would not be ready.

Outside the tent, the banners of House Targaryen snapped in the rising evening breeze, the black and red vivid against the dying light. The dragons stirred from their slumber, sensing the anticipation, while Ghost rose silently to his feet, his golden eyes glowing in the dusk. The bond between the three women shimmered like a living flame, feeding their courage, their passion, and their unbreakable resolve—a force as inevitable as the coming storm.

~

The night hung thick and heavy over the fields before Yunkai, a curtain of shadows drawn taut across the land. The only light came from the pale, indifferent moon, the scattered watchfires of the Yunkai'i and their mercenaries, and the dim, warmer glow from within the city itself. The air was hot and close, thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and distant woodsmoke, as if the land itself were holding its breath for what was to come.

Visenya moved like a phantom through the darkness, every movement deliberate and silent, a dance she had practiced countless times in other lives and other battles. She stayed low, her body flowing with the terrain, becoming part of the night. Behind her, the auxiliary cohort crept in disciplined silence, their prefect beside her, grim-faced and steady, the men and women under his command trained to follow her lead without hesitation. Far ahead, a handful of scouts slithered forward like shadows, slipping between rocks and clumps of scrub grass, ensuring their path remained clear and unseen.

They were close now—so close Visenya could smell the tang of iron from weapon oil and hear the low, careless sounds of men talking, laughing, sharpening swords, and cursing the night. The Second Sons lounged around their fires with an easy confidence, utterly unaware of the jaws closing around them.

Visenya's hand rested lightly on the hilt of Dark Sister, though she would not draw until the moment demanded blood. Around her, her cohort crouched low or laid flat against the earth, their short swords, javelins, and slings ready at hand. Their breath came slow and steady, trained to conserve their strength until it was needed. Magic tingled beneath Visenya's skin, a live current of power waiting to be unleashed at the first cry of battle.

Across the wide, dark plain, on the opposite flank of the Yunkai army, Lyarra mirrored her movements. She crouched in the darkness, her bastard sword across her back, the northern blade sheathed at her hip. Her own cohort was tight against the ground, listening to the restless snorts and stamping hooves of the Stormcrows' camp. The mercenaries' horses were picketed with lax discipline, some tied too loosely, others simply corralled between tents. The Stormcrows were no more prepared than the Second Sons.

Lyarra could almost feel the tension crackling in the air around her. She shifted slightly, her tunic sticking to her skin with sweat, her muscles thrumming with energy. She could see the battle unfolding in her mind's eye already—the chaos, the cries, the shattering of lines as the mercenaries scrambled in panic, their cavalry unable to mount in time.

They were both in position now, two blades poised to strike at the heart of the slaver army. Every heartbeat felt stretched to eternity, every breath drawn with quiet, desperate anticipation.

Their goal was clear and merciless: strike fast, strike hard, and scatter the mercenary cavalry before they could take the field. Without their mounted support, the Yunkai army would be little more than a mass of terrified men, easy prey for the relentless advance of the Unsullied legions.

Visenya flexed her fingers once more, feeling the ancient and electric pulse of battle magic singing in her veins. Lyarra shifted her stance minutely, a feral grin tugging at her lips, her wolf-blood stirred by the scent of coming battle.

All that remained was the signal—the moment the dragons would roar, the moment the Targaryens would unleash their fury—and then they would break the Wise Masters' dreams of gold and power into ash and ruin.

~

Daenerys sat tall in her saddle atop the rise, her silver hair catching the moonlight like spun silk. Her pale blue riding gown whispered in the cool night breeze as she watched the advancing blocks of Unsullied below. Around her, Arstan Whitebeard, Jorah Mormont, and a handful of Auxiliary light horse stood guard, their silhouettes outlined by the glow of the distant campfires. Near her mount's withers, nestled against the saddle's curve, Nira clung quietly, the young dragon's bright eyes sharp and alert as she peered out over the battlefield.

Drakarion, Vaelyx, and Aenryx circled overhead, dark shapes against the starlit sky, their wings whispering faintly through the air. Occasionally one would swoop lower, as if eager to unleash their fury, but Daenerys kept them circling, waiting.

Below, the Unsullied marched in grim, perfect silence. Their formations were tight phalanxes, shields locked, spears angled forward, a silent tide of death. Even at a distance, Daenerys could see the discipline in every step—the unwavering march of a thousand iron wills. The moonlight occasionally glanced off the bronze spikes of their helmets or the tips of their long spears, but otherwise they moved as one dark, fluid mass.

Behind the first ranks of Unsullied came companies of crossbowmen and slingers—Auxiliaries from among the freedmen who had proven themselves in training. They marched under the watchful eye of their officers, flanked on all sides by more Unsullied, ensuring that the lines remained strong and no opening appeared for the enemy to exploit.

Daenerys felt the tension in the air—a heavy, waiting thing that pressed down on the field. Her hand rested lightly on the hilt of the short sword belted at her hip, a mere formality compared to the true weapons she commanded. Her dragons. Her soldiers. Her cause.

Her violet eyes burned with purpose. Tonight, Yunkai would learn what it meant to face the blood of old Valyria. Tonight, the Wise Masters would learn that dragons did not bow, did not bargain, and did not forgive.

~

Visenya crouched among the scrub, her heart thrumming like a drumbeat in her ears. The earth beneath her vibrated ever so slightly with the rhythmic thunder of many disciplined feet. The Unsullied phalanxes were on the move, their locked shields forming dark, implacable blocks against the moonlit plain.

Across the field, scattered firelight cast flickering shadows over the mercenary camps. Shouts and curses began to rise from the Stormcrows and Second Sons as they heard the distant, measured tread of Daenerys's army advancing. Confusion rippled through the mercenaries, officers barking orders, slaves scrambling to rouse riders and soldiers alike. But it was already too late.

Visenya straightened, a fierce, determined gleam in her violet eyes. With a smooth motion, she drew Dark Sister, the ancient blade whispering as it left its sheath. With her other hand, she lifted the carved dragon horn to her lips and blew.

The sound tore through the night like a living thing, an ancient roar amplified by the magic Visenya had etched into the horn. From the opposite flank, Lyarra's answering horn cried out, fierce and wild. Overhead, Sylveris let loose a thunderous roar, the other dragons answering with deafening cries, and from Lyarra's side Ghost's howl rose to join them.

The auxiliaries surged forward with a cry, small, lethal groups breaking into the camp like knives through silk. Visenya led the charge, Dark Sister flashing silver and red in the firelight. The auxiliaries fought in loose, mobile bands, spears darting forward, short swords slashing as they cleaved into the chaos of the camps. They struck at confused officers and slavers, sowing terror and confusion.

The horse lines were targeted first. Auxiliary blades slashed ropes and panicked the mounts, scattering them into the night. Mercenaries who had hoped to mount up found themselves stumbling in the dark, their horses fleeing or already galloping madly through the camp.

Everywhere Visenya looked, chaos reigned—exactly as they had planned. She shouted orders to spare those who threw down their arms, and to focus their fury on the slave masters and mercenary captains. Freeing the slaves was as much a weapon as any blade, and the auxiliaries proved it, shouting freedom as they fought, proving by their very existence that the yoke could be broken.

On the other side of the field, Lyarra moved like a storm unleashed, Frostbite—her newly forged Valyrian steel bastard sword—gleaming wickedly as it drank the moonlight and the blood of her foes. Her wolf-blooded howl echoed across the field, raw and untamed, carrying over the din of battle. Around her, the cohort she led struck with ruthless precision, their movements guided by her fury and skill, crippling the Stormcrows' ability to organize before they could even mount a defense.

Under the pale moon and distant fires, with the rumble of the advancing Unsullied growing ever closer, the Dragon’s Host began to tighten its claws around the city of Yunkai.

Visenya drove Dark Sister through the throat of a mercenary captain, stepping lightly around his collapsing body. Around her, the auxiliaries surged, light-armored but full of grim determination. They fought in the swirling chaos with the advantage of surprise, their short swords flashing and spears thrusting. Whenever small groups of the mercenaries tried to rally, they found themselves targeted by javelin volleys or crossbow bolts that tore into their ranks before they could organize.

Sylveris swept low overhead, her scales flashing silver in the moonlight. Her roar ripped through the night as she breathed fire onto clusters of tents and enemy fighters. Smoke billowed across the field, fires blooming like angry flowers among the camps, driving more confusion and fear into the mercenaries' ranks.

Visenya moved like a wraith through the chaos, magic thrumming through her blood, lending unnatural strength and speed to her strikes. Dark Sister carved bloody arcs through the night, the ancient blade an extension of her will. Her magic burned hotter with every heartbeat, whispering promises of boundless power and destruction, but she held it tightly in check, balancing on the knife's edge of her madness with grim determination. Precision ruled her movements; every strike was calculated, every step lethal.

Across the field, Lyarra fought with the fury of a wolf unchained. Frostbite gleamed a deep, hungry red in the firelight as she wielded the Valyrian steel bastard sword with both hands. Her strikes were savage but controlled, her movements a dance of violence and rage that swept through the Stormcrows' camp like a living tempest. Ghost tore through the mercenaries beside her, a white shadow streaked with blood, fangs flashing and claws rending.

Though Lyarra did not command magic like Visenya, the sheer intensity of her anger and grief fueled her, the grief of a stolen childhood and the betrayal of her blood driving her forward. She channeled her emotions into every strike, into every roar of defiance. And through it all, she remained focused, never letting the rage blind her, but using it as a weapon sharper than any blade.

Panic began to ripple through the mercenary forces. Their officers lay dead or dying, their horses scattered into the night, and now fire and steel closed in from all sides. Facing the wrath of dragons and the fierce auxiliaries, the mercenaries began to break, fleeing in small groups and then in a flood, abandoning their weapons and comrades alike.

With the mercenaries collapsing, the path to the Yunkai'i army lay open. And at that moment, the ground itself seemed to tremble as the Unsullied phalanxes advanced in grim, implacable silence. Shield walls locked, spears bristling forward like the teeth of some massive beast, they descended on the disorganized remnants of the Yunkai force.

The claws of the Dragon had closed, and Yunkai stood alone against the fury of fire and blood.

The Yunkai host stood wavering in the moonlight, its ranks thinned, its edges frayed. Smoke coiled above the camp from tents set ablaze, and the cries of wounded mercenaries drifted like dying embers across the battlefield. The slave soldiers of Yunkai stood uncertain, their formation faltering as the twin flanks of the Dragon's army pressed in from both sides.

From one side, Visenya advanced on foot, her stride purposeful and resolute, her armor streaked with ash and blood. Dark Sister hung in her hand, dark and gleaming, its edge still wet from the chaos of battle. Her violet eyes burned in the dim light, fierce and unyielding. From the other flank, Lyarra moved like a force of nature, Frostbite resting against her shoulder, Ghost padding silently at her side, his muzzle smeared crimson. They raised their voices in unison, their High Valyrian echoing across the battlefield like the roar of dragons.

"Lay down your arms!" Visenya called. "The Wise Masters feed on your lives and call it honor! Cast them down—take your freedom, take your future!"

"Be free!" Lyarra added, her voice raw with both fury and conviction. "You need not die for their chains! The Dragon offers you fire—and freedom!"

For a moment, all held still. Tension cracked in the air like lightning before the storm. The slave soldiers looked among themselves, hesitating, unsure. The Wise Masters barked orders, brandished whips and blades, but doubt had taken root. Slowly, one slave let his spear fall. Another followed. Then a dozen. Then hundreds. The mass of armed slaves turned, backs to their masters, stepping away with tears in their eyes and weapons on the ground.

But not all. A hardened knot of Yunkai soldiers and remaining masters held firm, refusing to yield.

Lyarra strode forward, her face set like iron, and raised Frostbite high, its Valyrian steel catching the light of the fires still smoldering across the battlefield.

"Crouch!"

The order rang out, a thunderclap amidst the chaos. Instantly, the Unsullied front phalanxes obeyed with flawless discipline, their knees dropping as shields angled forward in an unyielding wall. In the sudden gap behind them, the crossbow companies surged forward, boots pounding the dirt in perfect rhythm. They moved like clockwork, trained precision and absolute focus. Their bolts—black steel tipped with barbed heads—were already notched.

"Loose!"

The response was instant. Hundreds of crossbow strings twanged in unison, the sound sharp and visceral. The volley screamed across the open field like a dark storm given form. Bolts tore through the night air with deadly grace, punching through armor, ripping flesh, scattering the last loyalists into ruin. Men screamed and dropped their weapons as death swept over them in a black rain.

Some tried to run. Some raised shields too late. Others simply fell without ever seeing what struck them. The force of the coordinated volley broke the remaining resistance like dry twigs beneath a dragon’s foot.

As the dust settled and the echoes of pain faded into moans and silence, the battlefield was theirs.

Smoke, fire, and blood hung thick on the air. Around them, freedom bloomed amidst ruin.

The Dragon’s Host had triumphed. Yunkai would never be the same again.

~

Lyarra and Visenya remained on the field after the final volley, lingering among the aftermath of battle as dusk gave way to deepening night. The moon hung pale overhead, casting silver over blood-soaked ground and the broken remnants of the Yunkai army. Tents still smouldered where Sylveris had breathed her fire, and the groans of the wounded mingled with the hushed murmurs of victors tending to fallen friends and subdued foes. The scent of ash, sweat, and blood clung to the air, thick with the weight of what had just passed.

Visenya, streaked with ash and grime, Dark Sister still at her hip, worked with calm authority. Her voice was steady, low, but every command carried the edge of steel. She moved with grim determination, issuing orders to auxiliary officers, directing the sorting of prisoners, and ensuring that the wounded—friend and foe alike—were tended. The Wise Masters, stripped of their silks and arrogance, were shackled and set apart under heavy guard. Their terrified expressions were sharp contrast to their once-smug sneers. Ghost lingered by Lyarra’s side, eyes alert and nostrils flaring, while Sylveris prowled nearby, her scales reflecting flickers of dying firelight, her presence a constant reminder of dragon fury.

Only once order had been fully restored, the prisoners secured, and the wounded stabilized, did they send a runner back to Daenerys with news of the victory. Looting commenced under strict supervision, with orders to seize only what was needed: food, water, weapons, armor. The rest would be burned.

When they finally rode back to camp, the stars glittered overhead, the horizon dark and still. The guards stepped aside at once, and Missandei awaited them just beyond the entrance. Despite her youth, she looked resolute—ink-stained fingers tight around her stylus, scrolls spread across a small table lit by a hanging lantern. Her eyes widened with relief upon seeing the two generals return. She took down their reports swiftly, scribbling each word Lyarra and Visenya spoke, her jaw tight with focus.

Daenerys stood tall behind her, flanked by Arstan and Jorah, her composure immaculate. Yet even as she greeted them, her hands twitched slightly, and her violet eyes shimmered with restrained emotion. Only when the last word was recorded and Missandei—reluctant but exhausted—was coaxed off to sleep did Daenerys finally move.

She stepped forward and took both Lyarra and Visenya by their hands. "You’re both hurt," she said, her voice soft but thick with emotion. Her gaze fixed on the drying blood at Lyarra’s arm, and she visibly swallowed.

"It’s shallow," Lyarra murmured, but Daenerys was already guiding her toward their tent.

Inside, their dragons immediately surged forward. Drakarion nuzzled Visenya’s shoulder, his scales warm from fire, while Aenryx wrapped his long neck around Daenerys’s waist and Vaelyx pressed his head into Lyarra’s chest. Nira bounded from her perch to curl atop Ghost’s back, the direwolf stretching out with a low groan and nuzzling Lyarra’s calf. The tent, lit by oil lamps, was their haven—walls of thick canvas enclosing their private world.

Together, they began undressing. Leather buckles came undone, breastplates removed, vambraces peeled away. Daenerys's fingers lingered on the curve of Lyarra’s shoulders, brushing away smudges of ash. Visenya knelt beside Lyarra, unfastening the straps at her thigh, her gaze reverent, her touch featherlight.

Daenerys wet a cloth, gently dabbing at the dried blood on Lyarra’s face and arm. She cleaned the wound in silence, her lips tight. Then she began to bandage it with soft linen. "I should’ve been with you," she whispered, voice shaking.

Visenya gently took her twin’s hand. "You were needed here. But we’re back, and safe."

Once Lyarra was clean, Daenerys kissed her—long, deep, and filled with everything she hadn’t said. Her hands cupped Lyarra’s face, trembling slightly as if afraid to let go. Then she turned to Visenya, and their kiss was just as full of fire—possessive, aching, and relieved. Visenya drew Daenerys close, one hand around her waist, the other buried in her hair.

Lyarra watched, breath held in awe and longing, until Daenerys reached out for her again and pulled her into their embrace. The three of them tangled together, mouths brushing cheeks, chins, lips. No part of them untouched. Their love wasn’t a scale to be balanced, but a flame passed hand to hand—burning ever brighter with each exchange.

They sank together to their bedroll. The dragons surrounded them, forming a wall of heat and scale and steady breathing. Ghost lay at their feet, his body curled protectively, one amber eye cracked open as if to guard them in sleep.

Daenerys whispered in the quiet, brushing Lyarra’s hair back from her brow. Visenya lay on Lyarra’s other side, an arm around her waist, their foreheads touching.

"I love you," Daenerys murmured.

"And I love you both," Visenya added, her voice thick.

Lyarra didn’t speak right away. Her throat was tight. But she felt it—every breath, every heartbeat, every gaze—they meant it. She belonged here, tangled in this love, wrapped in the arms of dragonfire and loyalty. "And I love you," she whispered. "I love you both so much."

They held each other like that until sleep claimed them, the night air thick with warmth, the scent of smoke and sweat and salt. Outside, the soldiers rested, and the wounded healed, and the freed slaves began to believe in a future again.

And in the heart of it all, in a tent aglow with lamplight and affection, the fire of three dragons burned ever brighter—undimmed by blood, unshaken by war.

Together, they were unstoppable.

Together, they were home.

~

The morning sun filtered through the oiled canvas of the command tent, casting warm golden light across the war table and the gathered commanders. Maps of Yunkai and the surrounding terrain lay spread across its surface, weighed down with carved tokens denoting units, flanking paths, and known enemy positions. The air carried the scent of dust, leather, and parchment, thick with purpose and lingering tension.

Daenerys sat at the head of the table, regal in her simple blue riding dress, her posture a perfect blend of calm grace and silent authority. Her fingers curled around a ceramic cup of water, the light glinting off the silver rings she wore. Beside her stood Visenya, clad in a crimson tunic beneath light armor, her dark hair braided back, a thin sheen of sweat still drying at her temples. Lyarra, still in one of Visenya's slightly oversized red tunics, her hair loosely tied at the nape of her neck, leaned slightly forward, her sharp violet eyes studying the maps.

To Daenerys’s right stood Arstan Whitebeard, dignified and quiet, a sentinel of experience and memory. On her left, Grey Worm nodded gravely, his gaze shifting between the map and each speaker with disciplined focus. Missandei sat cross-legged near the back of the tent, parchment and quill in hand, scribbling in graceful script. She worked with her usual quiet precision, a plate of half-eaten fruit beside her—a concession Daenerys had insisted on before the meeting began. Two additional scribes worked alongside her, carefully transcribing notes and military decisions for the archives.

Opposite the Targaryens stood Vyren Hestel and Vorala Foranar, two of the highest-ranking Auxiliary commanders. Vyren, a former mercenary turned slave turned commander, had the battle-hardened calm of a man who knew too well the price of survival. His dark skin was weathered by sun and war, his eyes calculating but respectful. Vorala, sharp-eyed and younger, radiated focused energy. Her crisp uniform spoke of pride, her gaze alert and quietly hungry for knowledge.

“The auxiliaries performed admirably,” Daenerys began, her voice steady and thoughtful. “Our losses were minimal. The mercenaries scattered, their morale broken. Yunkai is now vulnerable and exposed.”

“They exceeded expectations,” Grey Worm added with a quiet nod. “Fast. Effective. Loyal.”

“But they are not yet ready to face a true wall of steel,” Visenya said gently but firmly. She tapped a finger against the edge of the map, her tone measured. “They fought well because the battle was designed in our favor. We chose the ground, the moment, the terms. But in a straightforward engagement without those elements, their lack of experience could cost us dearly.”

Lyarra leaned her hands on the table, her tone layered with conviction. “She’s right. In the Riverlands, we fought the Lannisters when they outnumbered us. Their troops were ill-trained, poorly equipped, but numbers can be dangerous when you're caught flat-footed. We didn’t win by brute strength—we won by speed, by using terrain, hitting their foragers, striking before they could respond. That’s the kind of warfare the auxiliaries can excel at right now.”

Vyren Hestel folded his arms across his chest, nodding slowly. “You mean to say we should avoid meeting the next enemy in open formation?”

“For now,” Lyarra said. “Until they have more cohesion and confidence. They're brave, yes, but courage without structure leads to death. Let them keep training. Let them master skirmishes, flanking, ambushes. That’s how we preserve them.”

Vorala leaned forward, her fingers tracing a section of the map. “The men and women under my command are eager. Desperate to prove they belong. That kind of drive can be dangerous if it’s not tempered. If we give them small victories, real ones, we can build something unbreakable.”

Visenya tapped her knuckles against the table. “Agreed. We must continue drilling them, rotating units through live training, alternating between patrols and battlefield exercises. Teach them formations, responses, discipline. We let them see what it is to win. And what it means to bleed for it.”

Daenerys sat back slightly in her chair, taking in the discussion with quiet pride. Her gaze drifted between the faces of the people gathered before her—the foundation of something new, something stronger than bloodlines or gold. “Then it is settled,” she said. “No false hope. No empty pride. We guide them carefully. We build them not just into an army—but into a people who know the meaning of their freedom.”

Missandei's stylus scratched across the parchment in swift, graceful loops. The other scribes kept pace, nodding slightly as Daenerys finished speaking.

Outside the tent, the sounds of a waking camp filled the air—clanging metal, shouted orders, the rhythmic stomp of drilling feet. Inside, the warmth of strategy and solidarity burned brightly, tempered by honesty and wisdom. Between maps and shadows, the Dragon Queens prepared for the next storm.

They would not falter. They would forge forward, fire and heart as one.

As the final words of their tactical debrief faded into silence, Daenerys straightened in her seat and cast her gaze toward the map again, her fingers lightly tracing the inked outline of Yunkai. "Now we must decide what to do with the city itself."

A beat of silence followed before Visenya spoke, her voice calm but resolute. "We could besiege them, starve them into submission. But it would take time, and give them the chance to call for allies."

Lyarra shook her head. "And every day we wait, more people suffer behind those walls. Their slaves won’t be given extra food or protection. If anything, they’ll be punished because of us."

Daenerys nodded. "Then we will give them a choice: surrender and free their slaves, or face the full might of the Dragon's Host."

Grey Worm, standing silently to the side, gave a small nod. "We should move quickly. Before they can entrench."

"Agreed," Visenya said. She turned to Grey Worm. "Take the Second Legion forward. Establish a forward encampment and prepare for siege operations if they do not accept terms. Set a visible line of strength. The rest of the host will follow in two waves."

Lyarra stepped closer to the map, her fingers tapping the terrain between their current camp and Yunkai. "It's about three leagues from here to the city. You should reach the outer range by mid-afternoon if you leave within the hour."

Grey Worm offered a sharp salute. "It will be done."

Daenerys looked to Missandei, who was already transcribing. "Draft a formal letter of surrender. Tell them their lives will be spared and their city left standing, but only if they release their slaves and open their gates."

Visenya smiled faintly. "They won’t accept it, not right away. But the moment they hesitate, the cracks will begin."

"Then let us widen those cracks," Daenerys said, rising. "Let them see what awaits those who cling to chains."

The commanders gave nods of assent. Outside the tent, horns began to sound as the Second Legion readied to march.

The Dragon Queens had made their decision. Now it was up to Yunkai to choose its fate.

~

The Dragon’s host stirred with the slow, rising rhythm of a beast shaking off sleep—massive, living, and lethal. The cool hours of morning had already given way to the rising blaze of a southern sun, and the horizon shimmered with the promise of heat. Still, the host moved like the tide—cohorts falling into column, banners snapping in the wind, iron clinking, hooves striking dry earth, the bray of mules and shouted orders blending into a single, deep-throated hum that spread across the open plain.

Three leagues from Yunkai, the yellow city’s walls stood distant and still, sunlight gilding its copper domes and pale ramparts. It had not yet closed its gates. But it would.

The Dragon Queens were on the move.

Visenya Targaryen strode between the phalanxes of the 1st and 4th Legions like a general reborn, her leather and chainmail darkened with oil and sand, her silver-gold braid bound with steel clips and woven tight against the wind. The glint of her armor was muted beneath desert dust, but her presence drew every eye—every Unsullied soldier she passed snapped straighter, every auxiliary cohort murmured in Valyrian, Dothraki, and Ghiscari with quiet reverence. Her shadow stretched long behind her in the morning light, and ahead, soldiers parted instinctively to make room.

Beside her, Lyarra matched pace, clad near identically—chainmail sleeves glinting faintly beneath the black-dyed leather breastplate molded to her form, the dragon sigil of her house burned into its center in dark red lacquer. Her face was flushed from exertion and the press of heat beneath armor not made for desert war, but she held her chin high, the great white direwolf padding silently at her side.

Ghost drew nearly as much awe as the women did. Soldiers made signs of respect or murmured prayers as the beast passed, and none dared touch him—though some reached down to scratch their own camp hounds, as if echoing the silent connection between Lyarra and her guardian.

Between the sisters moved their dragons.

Aenryx wheeled overhead in long, lazy spirals, her creamy-gold wings cutting clean arcs against the bright sky, while Sylveris paced along the line of the 4th Legion, her white-spotted scales shimmering like polished moonstone beneath a layer of kicked-up dust. Drakarion—fierce, flame-eyed—flew higher still, circling the vanguard where Grey Worm led the 2nd Legion to establish siege lines and entrenchments. His roar echoed faintly now and then, a thunderous, distant challenge that rolled across the plains like an omen.

Visenya stopped to speak with the command centurion of the 4th, her voice clipped and clear, giving precise instructions on pacing, column spacing, and how the ballista-bearing wagons should be staggered between cohorts. Lyarra meanwhile knelt beside a young auxiliary slinger whose arm was bound in a rough bandage, inspecting the knot and ordering one of the passing medicae to rebind it properly. The boy flushed crimson under her gaze, stammered thanks, and almost dropped his slingstones before scrambling after his unit.

"They worship you," Visenya muttered as they regrouped, her tone dry but warm with affection.

Lyarra smirked, adjusting her greave. “They worship you more.”

Visenya’s eyes flicked toward the city on the horizon. “Let them worship our fire. That’s what’ll make Yunkai think twice before forcing our hand.”

At the rear of the host, Daenerys moved with equal grace—but her realm was softer, quieter, no less vital. She had dismounted from her mount early in the morning and now walked the length of the baggage train, flanked by guards and followed by curious children, healers, and old women from freed slave families. She stopped often—offering a water skin to a coughing teamster, smiling as she helped soothe a spooked mule, taking a moment to speak to a mother balancing twin infants on her hip.

Her dress, pale blue and almost weightless, clung in the heat and fluttered with her movement. It shimmered when the sun struck it, giving her the appearance of a goddess conjured from mist. The neckline dipped just enough to draw wandering glances from soldiers and civilians alike—though none dared speak of it above a whisper. The dragon’s fire burned in her eyes, no matter how soft her tone.

Children followed her as if caught in her wake, some clinging to her skirts until she gently pried them off with a kiss on the forehead and sent them scampering back to their mothers. At one stop, she knelt beside a wounded camp cook with a bandaged thigh and murmured quiet reassurances while helping retie his wrappings, fingers delicate and practiced.

When she rose again, a line of slave-born auxiliaries bowed low in her direction.

Overhead, Vaelyx banked low over the tail of the army, his bronze-and-green wings casting shade over wagons filled with scorpion parts and crates of iron-tipped bolts. He gave a shrieking call, playful but sharp, prompting a few mules to rear and kick, much to the laughter of nearby infantry.

From the middle ground, a scout rode hard toward the main command—dust trailing his gallop. He passed between the columns of Unsullied, who didn’t flinch or glance up, their discipline absolute.

Visenya caught the report first. She and Lyarra had paused beside the line of covered siege wagons, one hand resting on the canvas tarps that concealed the heavy scorpions and collapsible onagers within.

“The city remains open,” the scout said, saluting. “But the city hasn’t sent an envoy. The gates aren’t closed, yet they’re not flying any banner of parley either.”

Visenya’s jaw tensed. “They’re waiting to see if we’ll actually march.”

“We will,” Lyarra said, gaze narrowing. “And if they don’t kneel, they’ll burn.”

Visenya nodded, placing a firm hand on her sister’s armored shoulder. “Get the cohorts moving. I’ll ride ahead with Grey Worm. They’ll get one chance. One.”

“And if they refuse?” Lyarra asked, low and even.

Visenya’s smile was all teeth. “Then we show them what dragonfire and discipline can do together.”

Across the plain, the Dragon’s host began to move. The rear baggage train fell into step behind Daenerys, a long ripple of wagons, mules, and camp followers trailing behind. The center formed columns with shields strapped and spears at the ready. The slingers adjusted their leathers, chatter fading as tension thickened. The ballista teams whispered to one another behind the curtains of their wagons, itching for the call to unhitch and set their machines.

The sky itself seemed to darken as the dragons shifted their flight paths—circling lower, closer, their shadows gliding across shields and banners. Ghost loped ahead with his silent menace, weaving between scouts and officers as though he too felt the tension building in the earth.

And at the front, Visenya mounted her horse with the ease of long practice. She turned once, raising her voice high enough to carry across the wind:

“March. But do not waste breath. Let Yunkai see who comes for them.”

And behind her, the Dragon Host began to march in full. The dust they raised reached the clouds. The war drums resumed their thunder. The city of Yunkai stood silent still—but now it trembled.

The dragons were coming.

~

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the desert in a wash of amber and rose as the 2nd Legion of Unsullied, led by Grey Worm, reached the outer perimeter of Yunkai. Three leagues from their previous camp, the march had been swift and without resistance. The yellow walls of the city loomed in the distance, arrogant and silent, their gates tightly shut.

With precision and discipline, the Unsullied began their work.

Grey Worm issued crisp orders, and the soldiers moved with the silent, methodical rhythm that had become their trademark. Trenches were dug in calculated rows, palisades quickly erected in overlapping segments to offer cover against potential counterstrikes. Within the first hour, stakes and caltrops lined the outer edges, and watch stations were established.

By the time dusk bled into night, the basic siege works had formed a crescent of ordered threat before the main gate of Yunkai. Fires were lit at regular intervals to maintain visibility, and scouts rode out in pairs to watch for enemy movements.

A few hours later, the rest of the Dragon Host arrived in waves: auxiliaries, engineers, beasts of burden, and the remainder of the Unsullied. Visenya, Daenerys, and Lyarra rode near the front, flanked by their dragons and their guards. The trio watched as the siege works came into view, silhouetted against the firelight, and their eyes took in the progress with approval.

At Daenerys’s orders, the main camp was established a half league behind the siege lines—close enough to respond to emergencies, yet far enough to avoid being targeted by missiles. Engineers and soldiers worked through the night to pitch tents, dig latrines, and prepare stockpiles of water and food.

From the covered wagons brought forth from the central supply line, pieces of siege engines were unloaded. Teams of engineers and auxiliaries began the assembly of scorpions, ballistae, and two large onagers, their wooden limbs soon rising like skeletal threats before the walls. Each structure was placed in clear view of Yunkai’s watchtowers—a silent message writ in timber and iron.

"Let them see," Visenya said to Lyarra as she passed, her voice cool and laced with iron. "Let them understand what is coming."

"We give them a choice," Lyarra murmured, gaze hard on the golden walls. "But if they choose chains over change, we break them."

Behind them, Drakarion gave a low growl, his wings folding neatly as he curled near the commanders' tent. Sylveris and Ghost took up flanking positions on opposite ends of the camp, while Aenryx and Vaelyx lounged near the engineers assembling the siege weapons, casting flickers of flame now and then, more curious than threatening.

The Dragon Host had arrived. Yunkai had been warned.

~~

The sun had just begun its slow climb into the pale blue sky when the gates of Yunkai creaked open—not with defiance or steel, but with quiet surrender.

The city made no proclamation, no grand offering of keys, no herald draped in silks to announce peace. Instead, the gates parted and released a flood of people—not soldiers in shining armor or nobles cloaked in silk, but men and women in chains… only the chains were falling, left behind in the dust as they stepped free.

Slaves. No longer.

They came in lines, at first hesitant, dazed. Then in growing numbers, wave after wave, barefoot and blinking in the rising light. Some held hands. Some carried children on their backs or clutched sacks of what little they could take. All bore the same expression: wonder.

Visenya, Daenerys, and Lyarra rode out from their camp, mounted and proud. Drakarion, Sylveris, Aenryx, and Vaelyx soared overhead in lazy, powerful arcs, casting massive shadows over the earth. Nira, still too young to fly, curled around Lyarra's shoulders like a living scarf of frost and moonlight, her violet eyes scanning the horizon. Ghost padded ahead, ghostly white and silent, a living sentinel at their side.

They did not need heralds or banners. Their presence alone was declaration enough.

As they passed through the freed throngs, little Missandei, seated behind Daenerys, called out to the people in High Valyrian, repeating what had been whispered in campfires and carried on the wind.

"It is by the will of the Dragon Queens," she said clearly, her voice light but proud, "Queens of Westeros, Mothers of Dragons, that your chains are broken."

A murmuring began, rippling through the crowd.

“Mhysa,” a brown-skinned man said softly, lifting his daughter to his shoulders.

The child’s voice rang out—thin and high but full of joy. “Mhysa!”

Dany turned to Missandei, brows drawn. “What are they shouting?”

Missandei smiled, eyes bright with emotion. “It is Ghiscari, the old pure tongue. It means ‘Mother.’”

And then the chant caught fire.

“Mhysa!” another voice shouted, then another, then dozens, hundreds. “Mhysa! Mhysa! MHYSA!”

From the walls of Yunkai to the front lines of the auxiliary ranks, the sound grew—louder, higher, joyous and desperate all at once. Some shouted in Ghiscari, others in Valyrian, others still in tongues older than the city itself: “Maela,” “Aelalla,” “Qathei,” “Tato.”

But all meant the same thing.

Mother.

They surged forward.

A tide of brown and gold and scarred backs and hopeful eyes. They ran toward the queens, hands reaching—not for weapons, but for salvation. To touch. To feel. To confirm with their own hands that the women before them were real. They pushed and stumbled over one another, some kneeling, others weeping. A few clutched at stirrups or fell at the horses' hooves to kiss the dust beneath them.

Auxiliaries shouted in broken Valyrian, trying to maintain a protective barrier. Unsullied formed a shield ring around the queens, their discipline unbreaking, but they could not stem the flood.

Even Strong Belwas, who stood nearby with arms folded over his belly, gave a low grunt and muttered curses in Low Valyrian as he was buffeted by hands and voices.

Ghost gave a warning growl, low and deadly, head swinging left to right, muscles coiling as if to leap. His red eyes locked onto movement, the overreaching hands. His growl didn’t rise to a snarl, but it didn’t fade either. He was a white blade of vigilance at Lyarra’s side.

Lyarra’s hand came down to brush Ghost’s shoulder. “Easy,” she murmured. “They’re not enemies.” Her voice caught—raw, unguarded.

Visenya watched them with a strange look, her usual cold control softened, almost reverent. She gripped her reins tightly and dismounted in one smooth motion. The crowd surged again—but this time, she let them come.

She lifted one woman to her feet—a slave no longer, her wrists raw but her eyes shining. She touched Visenya’s chest, over the dragon on her armor, then fell to her knees, tears streaking her cheeks.

Lyarra followed her sister’s lead, dismounting and reaching to steady an old man who had tripped at her feet. His arms were wrapped around a bundle—two infants, silent with hunger but staring with the wide-eyed reverence of children who had never known anything but chains. She passed them a waterskin and felt her throat tighten when the man grasped her hand with trembling fingers and pressed it to his forehead.

Daenerys remained mounted, her white mare calm despite the crush, her face luminous as the chant reached a crescendo.

“Mhysa! MHYSA!”

The walls of Yunkai trembled—not from catapult or dragonfire, but from the voices of the once-chained.

Tears slipped down Daenerys’s cheeks, unnoticed at first. She looked not at the crowd, but at her sisters, and then skyward—where Drakarion screamed his fury to the heavens. Above the city, his wings spread like vengeance.

Daenerys whispered, “Let them come.”

And the people did. With hands outstretched, with broken chains still clutched like relics, with the word on every tongue: Mother.

And from that moment forward, the Yellow City no longer belonged to its masters. It belonged to its people. And they, in turn, belonged to the fire.

As the cries of "Mhysa!" and its many echoes still lingered in the warm night air, Daenerys, calm but firm, gave the order: "We march into Yunkai."

The gates were already open, and the Dragon Host flowed into the city, not with the fury of conquest, but with the purpose of justice. Daenerys rode at the head, flanked by Visenya and Lyarra, their dragons flying in tight circles above, casting flickering shadows on the gold-and-ochre buildings of the slaver city. Ghost trotted silently at their side, his crimson eyes sweeping the streets with quiet vigilance.

The city itself would be spared; there would be no wanton looting, no destruction of homes or temples. But the Wise Masters—the architects and beneficiaries of human misery—would not be granted clemency. They were hunted down by the Auxiliaries and Unsullied with grim purpose, found in their mansions and gardened towers, and put to the sword. Some were dragged from cellars, others caught attempting to flee in disguise. Their blood would be the last Yunkai shed under chains.

With order quickly asserted, the real work began. As in Astapor, engineers and soldiers began establishing a structure for governance and recovery. Soldiers guarded granaries and storehouses while quartermasters and scribes cataloged the wealth found in the Wise Masters' vaults. A large portion was allocated to the Dragon Host—both payment and provision for the coming campaigns. The rest was dedicated to sustaining the city: food was distributed to the hungry, fresh water drawn and purified, and makeshift clinics set up to tend the sick and injured among the newly freed.

Visenya and Lyarra each took on oversight of different sectors of the city—Visenya focusing on the walls and military preparedness while Lyarra worked with the new city watch being formed from among the freed. Daenerys, central in all, began assembling a council to govern Yunkai in their absence, drawing representatives from the freed slaves, the learned, and those few merchants who had supported liberation.

Missandei assisted in organising, taking names, translating dialects, and helping direct supplies. Vorala Foranar and Vyren Hestel led recruitment among the freefolk, bolstering the Auxiliaries with those willing to train and serve.

It was long past midnight by the time the last scroll was written, the final refugee quarter stocked with food, and the names for the provisional council agreed upon.

Their work done for the night, the Three Dragons walked together to a modest chamber within the palace. Though once a room of luxury and cruelty, it had been swept clean, prepared for them by loyal hands. Inside, cool air wafted from the open balcony, and soft, clean linens awaited on the broad bed.

Armor was stripped with lazy hands and murmured curses. Leather straps unbuckled, chainmail shrugged off. Tunics dropped to the floor, and soft gasps escaped as bruises from the long ride or minor scrapes were discovered and kissed away.

The bed accepted them like a cradle—Visenya on one side, Lyarra in the middle, Daenerys curled around her front. Skin pressed to skin, warm and bare, their arms and legs tangled in wordless devotion. They didn’t need fire tonight, not that kind. This was the soft heat of breath, of pulse, of trust.

Their dragons settled close—Drakarion sprawled along the stone hearth, Sylveris curled protectively around the foot of the bed, Aenryx resting with her wings half open beside the window, Vaelyx tucked between the footposts, and little Nira sleeping against Lyarra's side. Ghost lay across the doorway, silent and watchful.

The room, once cold and cruel, was now filled with the shared warmth of beings bound by love, trust, and destiny. The Queens of the Dragon Host slept in one another's arms, surrounded by their loyal beasts, their soft breathing mingling with the night winds. Peaceful, for now.

 

Chapter 15: XV

Summary:

Building a new future for Yunkai.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XV

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The early morning light bathed the city in soft gold, the sun cresting over the distant dunes like the promise of a new beginning. Yunkai stirred below, its streets still hushed but alive with the slow, patient thrum of labor—hammers ringing in the forges, quiet voices rising in the cool dawn air, the scent of fresh bread and clean water seeping through open windows. The city was reborn piece by piece, brick by brick, under the watchful gaze of its liberators.

On the balcony of the palace—high above the waking streets—three queens sat in quiet intimacy, the world’s weight set aside for a fleeting moment of calm.

Visenya reclined in a carved wooden chair, her long legs draped across the smooth stone railing, a thin robe of dark crimson silk slipping off one shoulder. She wore it loosely, not to conceal but to savor the feel of the breeze against her skin. Her hair, unbraided and still damp from a quick wash, fell over her collarbone in molten silver waves. She sipped from a small cup of bitter black tea, eyes half-lidded as she watched the sun climb higher, her free hand resting lazily on Lyarra’s bare thigh.

Lyarra was perched at her side, close enough that their shoulders brushed, a soft white robe tied hastily around her waist. She had twisted her hair into a loose braid, dark strands glinting with dew. She picked at a plate of fresh dates and olives, fingers deft but slow, savoring each bite. Every so often she leaned into Visenya’s warmth, as if drawn there by instinct more than thought. Her eyes—those deep, storm-born eyes—were softer in the dawn light, her lips curved in a half-smile she rarely let the world see.

Daenerys sat cross-legged on a low cushion opposite them, her own robe of sky blue barely covering the gentle swell of her breasts, the silk clinging damply to her skin in the morning heat. Her silver hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the first rays of the sun and glowing like spun glass. She nibbled on a piece of sweet bread, her expression serene, but her gaze never strayed far from the two women beside her. Her eyes held that quiet hunger she never spoke aloud—soft but constant, a fire banked just beneath the surface.

Between them, a low table held their meager breakfast: plates of soft cheese and sliced fruit, a bowl of steaming porridge sweetened with honey and crushed nuts, and a single pot of tea. There was no need for more. Here, in this rare hour of peace, their bodies and their company were sustenance enough.

Around them, their loyal beasts lazed in the glow of the new day.

Drakarion sprawled at the balcony’s edge, his scaled sides rising and falling with a slow, contented breath. His head rested on crossed forelimbs, the red-black ridges of his crest glinting in the sun. Every so often, his tail flicked lazily across the stone, but his eyes remained closed, the picture of draconic ease.

Sylveris curled around one of the thick marble columns, her scales pearly white and dappled with the shifting light. She watched the city below with bright, curious eyes, head cocked as if she alone could hear the pulse of the reborn streets.

Aenryx and Vaelyx lay together in a patch of sun-drenched stone, wings half-open, tails draped across each other in unconscious affection. They chirped softly when Daenerys laughed at something Lyarra murmured—a sound like warm embers in the air.

Nira, smallest and most impish, perched on Lyarra’s shoulder. She nuzzled beneath the braid of Lyarra’s hair, the little dragon’s body warm and feather-light, wings twitching restlessly with each breath. Lyarra fed her a bit of sweet date, and the dragon chirped in delight, tongue flicking out to taste the syrupy flesh.

Ghost lay closest of all—pressed against Lyarra’s other side, his massive white head resting in her lap. He watched everything with red eyes half-closed, a low rumble of contentment vibrating through his chest each time Lyarra’s hand drifted to stroke his thick fur.

They spoke little as they ate. There was no need. The soft sound of the city stirring, the warmth of skin pressed together, the slow rhythm of breath and heartbeat—these were enough. Daenerys caught Lyarra’s gaze and held it, her lips quirking in a smile that was all invitation. Visenya reached for Daenerys’s hand across the table, lacing their fingers together with possessive tenderness.

For now, there was no conquest. No council, no iron, no fire. Only the dawn, and the promise that whatever battles came next, they would face them as one.

They finished their simple breakfast in lingering touches and shared smiles, the easy laughter of a rare, quiet morning echoing across the sun-warmed stones of the balcony. Daenerys licked honey from the tip of her finger and caught Lyarra’s gaze, her smile turning sultry. Lyarra’s hand paused halfway to the plate of figs, and Visenya caught the motion with a low, knowing chuckle.

“Don’t start,” Visenya said, voice lazy and warm as she stretched, her crimson robe slipping lower to reveal the top swell of her breasts. “We have work to do this morning.”

Daenerys pouted, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth as she reached for Visenya’s wrist. “Work can wait a moment, can’t it?” she said softly, shifting closer to Lyarra’s side, the silk of her robe whispering against the pale skin of Lyarra’s thigh.

Visenya arched an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes at odds with her mock sternness. “If you want the city to crumble around us, moonlight, by all means… but I’d rather we not be pulled from the sheets by reports of a fire in the granaries.”

Lyarra laughed low in her throat, the sound delicious and free, her hand lifting to brush a lock of Daenerys’s silver hair behind her ear. “She’s right,” she murmured, though her fingers lingered a moment too long, tracing the edge of Daenerys’s jaw before dropping away. “We have work to do. Later, though…” Her voice dropped lower, a promise of heat that made Daenerys’s breath hitch.

The three of them rose from the low cushions with easy, feline grace. The air was warm already, the faint scent of desert spices drifting in through the balcony doors. Around them, the dragons stirred lazily, Ghost lifting his head to watch with his red eyes as they began to dress.

Visenya was the first to slip out of her robe entirely, standing bare and unbothered in the soft light. She moved to the chest where their day’s clothes lay folded, her hands deft and sure as she selected a light tunic of fine linen, dyed deep grey-blue to match the sky before dawn. She stepped into soft, fitted trousers, the fabric clinging to the lines of her long legs.

Daenerys watched her, biting her lip as she let the robe slip down her shoulders. Her blue dress lay draped over the back of a nearby chair—silk as light as breath, cut to reveal the curve of her breasts and the delicate line of her collarbone. She stepped into it slowly, the fabric whispering across her skin. Lyarra moved to help, fingers sliding down Daenerys’s spine to fasten the small bronze clasps that held the dress closed.

Each touch was a caress, each breathless sigh a spark.

Lyarra, for her part, was flushed already, heat rising in her cheeks as she tugged on her own clothes—soft trousers, fitted snug to her thighs to allow freedom of movement. Her tunic was one of Visenya’s, deep red linen worn soft with years, the opening at the neck loose enough that it gaped open, baring the top of her breasts. The sleeves were too long, slipping down her arms as she fumbled with the belt that cinched the fabric at her waist.

Visenya stepped behind her, hands finding Lyarra’s hips to steady her. She bent low, lips brushing the shell of Lyarra’s ear. “You look better in my clothes than I ever did,” she murmured, her voice a growl of heat and possession.

Daenerys’s eyes darkened as she watched, her small hands reaching out to tug the shoulder of the tunic back up, though she let her thumb drag across the smooth skin exposed there. “She does,” she agreed softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Lyarra’s shoulder before stepping back with a sigh. “But if you two don’t finish getting dressed, I’ll have to order the Unsullied to carry you down to the square in nothing but your desire.”

Visenya laughed, her fingers lingering on Lyarra’s waist before she pulled back, straightening the belt and adjusting the collar to a semblance of modesty—though the way the fabric slipped and clung, it was anything but.

“Ready?” she asked, voice low.

Lyarra nodded, her breath coming a little faster. “Ready.”

Daenerys, already lacing up the soft leather sandals she favored for city walks, gave them both a final, heated look before turning to the balcony doors. “Come then,” she said, her voice light, but her eyes smoldering. “We have a city to build.”

Ghost rose as they stepped out, padding beside Lyarra with silent devotion. The dragons stirred and chirped, following their queens as they left the balcony and stepped out into the sun-drenched courtyard below—queens clad in linen and heat, hair still damp from the bath, eyes bright with purpose and the promise of the night to come.

The city waited. So did the fire that was never far from their skin.

They stepped into the meeting room with the morning sun already climbing higher, light streaming in through tall windows of patterned glass that cast the floor in a mosaic of shifting color. The air smelled faintly of parchment and spiced tea, a fragile calm that seemed to pause the city’s endless motion just beyond the walls.

The table had been moved closer to the windows for better light. Maps were spread across its surface, pinned at the corners by inkwells and cups, their edges curling from the dry heat. Small wooden markers—each cut and painted to represent units of Unsullied, slinger cohorts, siege engines—clustered along the riverbanks and the roads that led out toward the pale horizon and Meereen’s looming threat.

Arstan stood at the head of the table, posture straight and respectful despite the lines of age and the wear of long days. Jorah was to his left, his eyes shifting restlessly between the maps and the queens, his fingers drumming a silent tattoo on the wood. Grey Worm, silent but watchful, stood at attention just behind them—an immovable pillar of iron in human form.

Near the middle of the table stood the two Auxiliary commanders, Vyren Hestel and Vorala Foranar, faces solemn and focused. Vyren—tall and broad-shouldered, his skin sun-browned from years under an open sky—watched the maps with a soldier’s hard eyes. Vorala, quick-eyed and thoughtful, had a small sheaf of notes in her hand, her dark hair braided back in the same no-nonsense fashion as her commands.

Missandei sat at a smaller table near the windows, a slate in her lap and her quill already poised above it, wide dark eyes flicking between the speakers and the quick scribbles of Valyrian script she captured on the page. She was a still point in the quiet flurry of the room, her youth belying the sharp precision of her notes.

Visenya claimed her place at the table with effortless authority, resting one hand lightly on Lyarra’s lower back as she took her seat. Lyarra sat next to her, her gaze steady, her fingers lightly drumming the edge of the map, absorbing every detail with the quiet intensity that had become second nature since they’d taken Yunkai. Daenerys sat opposite them, her posture deceptively relaxed, her eyes warm with that same quiet hunger she wore so easily, but her attention sharp and unwavering.

“Let’s hear the night’s reports,” Visenya said, her tone even, her gaze sweeping the gathered faces.

Arstan inclined his head first. “The distribution of food went as planned, Khaleesi. The city’s storehouses have been inventoried and cataloged. A third of the wheat and barley was set aside for immediate needs—bread, porridge, seed. The rest has been marked for reserves, though I advise a watch on the silos—some of the former overseers have already tried to sell it back to the new council.”

Visenya’s lips tightened faintly. “Have those men been spoken to?”

“They have,” Jorah said, his voice calm but edged. “Most have been exiled, though a few with particular skills were spared—under watch. Their value doesn’t outweigh their treachery.”

Daenerys gave a small nod of approval. “And the injured?”

“Medicae tents are set up near the river,” Arstan replied. “The worst cases were seen first—those who’d been worked to the bone, some of them crippled. Supplies are thin but the auxiliaries have been sharing what they can. Vorala’s cohorts have taken to guarding the medicae tents at night.”

Vorala inclined her head. “They are safe, Your Graces. No one will touch them again.”

“Good,” Lyarra murmured. “And the engineering projects?”

Grey Worm spoke for the first time, his voice quiet but carrying across the stone floor. “The riverbanks are being reinforced. The older docks were rotting—those are being cleared to make way for new ones. The engineers have begun work on fresh water channels and latrines near the outer markets. Some of the city’s old wells were poisoned by the Masters; they’re being sealed. We should have the new wells ready within a fortnight.”

“And the City Watch?” Visenya asked, her tone clipped but approving.

Vyren shifted, his broad hands folding across the table. “Two new cohorts fully formed, Your Graces—drawn from the freedmen, men and women both. They’re learning quickly. The auxiliary officers have been helping train them to march and fight in formation, but they’ll still need months to be worthy of the name.”

“They have the heart for it,” Vorala added softly. “They won’t kneel again. Not to anyone.”

A flicker of a smile touched Daenerys’s lips. “That’s all that matters.”

Visenya turned to Vyren, her voice like a blade sliding free of the scabbard. “And the new recruits for the Dragon’s Host?”

Vyren’s mouth quirked, a ghost of a smile. “Nearly eight thousand by the latest count—spear and shield mostly. We’ve seen a surge of slingers and crossbowmen—fewer, but enough to stiffen the flanks. The scouts have tripled their numbers, mostly freedmen from the city’s stables and the slave pens. They’re green, but they ride hard and learn quick.”

Daenerys’s gaze softened. “And the baggage train?”

“Growing daily,” Vyren said. “Camp followers, cooks, smiths, healers. They’re all the lifeblood of this host now. Many of them lost everything, but they’re finding purpose in service. Some even offer to fight—though most are best suited to the work of keeping an army moving.”

Silence settled over the table—a deep, measured quiet filled with the weight of what lay ahead. Meereen was still distant—more than a hundred and sixty miles, perhaps closer to two hundred—but the Host was growing into the hammer that would break its walls.

Visenya leaned forward, fingers resting lightly on Lyarra’s thigh beneath the table, her touch possessive, grounding. “We’ll stay only long enough to see Yunkai secured. The city has its council. The Host has its teeth. Meereen will not stand long when we march.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered commanders. Daenerys watched them all, her expression softening into that quiet smile that could set hearts to racing, her voice a promise of mercy and fire both. “Then let’s finish here. Today, we rebuild. Tomorrow… we liberate.”

Missandei’s quill scratched the final words onto the page, the faint scent of ink and tea swirling around them. Beyond the arched windows, the dragons shifted in the courtyard—Drakarion stretching his wings lazily, Sylveris watching the horizon with patient, ancient eyes. Ghost lay at Lyarra’s feet, his white head resting on her boot, his breath slow and sure.

~

When the meeting ended, the three queens parted ways without hesitation, moving into the heat of the growing day as if pulled by invisible threads that bound them together even when separated.

Daenerys stayed to speak with Missandei, poring over the city council’s first written decrees—ratifying laws to protect the freedmen and codifying trade pacts with the river merchants already moving cautiously back to Yunkai. Her voice was soft, but her fingers traced the rough script with an unwavering precision, her eyes already miles ahead to the fate of Meereen.

Lyarra and Visenya, meanwhile, left the room together, the echoes of their bootsteps crisp against the palace’s cool marble floors. The early morning had already given way to the sharper heat of midday, the sun beating down on the pale stone of Yunkai’s outer walls, but neither woman paid it much heed. The soft linen tunics they wore were made for movement—cut to hug the body and leave arms free, the slight weight of chainmail at their belts a comfortable promise of steel at hand.

They rode out to the eastern training fields, where the Auxiliary cohorts were gathering in tight ranks, their voices low and measured as they began their drills. Dust rose around them, the smell of sweat and sun and iron thick in the air—a scent that spoke of determination more than fear.

Visenya dismounted first, her eyes sweeping the formation with a cold, measuring gaze. She moved through the ranks with the calm assurance of a woman born to command, her hand resting lightly on the pommel of Dark Sister as she walked. Here, in the open sun, her presence drew silent salutes and quick, respectful bows.

Lyarra followed, her stride long and sure, Ghost loping silently at her side. The wolf’s red eyes scanned the field as if he too were measuring the recruits’ worth. Lyarra’s fingers flexed at her sides, the familiarity of the weight of her swords across her back a comfort.

The four cohorts that had fought in the battle had begun to take on their own identities in the short days since Yunkai’s fall—two infantry cohorts, and one each of slingers and crossbowmen. Their pride was palpable, etched into the painted shields and the crude but fierce banners that fluttered above them.

The first infantry cohort had taken the name “The Sable Talons”—a black hawk on their banner and shields, a symbol of the freedom they had seized with blood and steel. Their ranks were tight, their shields already battered from drill after drill.

The second called themselves “The Broken Chains”, their banner a length of chain snapped in two, painted in red across a field of pale cloth. Many of these men had been slaves only days ago, their eyes bright with something fierce and unbroken as they sparred under the sharp sun.

The crossbow cohort had claimed the name “The Iron Song”. Their captain, a whip-thin Ghiscari with quick fingers and an even quicker wit, had chosen the name for the twang of bowstrings and the quiet song of flight their bolts sang in the air. They moved in loose pairs, bows at rest, but every man and woman wore their quivers like badges of honor.

The slinger cohort, smaller but no less proud, had taken up the name “The Storm Reavers”—a nod to the sudden violence of their weapons and the howling wind of stones in flight. Lyarra paused to watch them for a long moment, her eyes soft with something like approval as the youngest of the recruits, a boy with hands still blistered from the weight of his sling, caught her gaze and straightened his back with pride.

“They’re coming into themselves,” Visenya murmured beside her, her hand brushing lightly along Lyarra’s arm. “Names are more than words—they’re shields against the world.”

Lyarra nodded, her voice low. “They’ll need those shields soon.”

Visenya’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile. “They have more than names, little wolf. They have us.”

They spent the next hour moving through the cohorts, Visenya stopping to correct a slinger’s stance with hands firm on his shoulders, her words clipped and sharp but her touch careful. Lyarra worked among the infantry, showing a young recruit how to shift his weight when driving a spear—her voice patient, her movements fluid, sweat darkening the red linen of her borrowed tunic. Ghost moved at her side, his silent presence a steady comfort, a reminder that she was never alone.

The air was alive with the quiet pride of men and women finding their place—shoulders squaring, eyes lifting, the weight of old lives falling away like scales in the sun. Lyarra’s lips curved into a rare smile as she met the gaze of one of the Storm Reavers, his knuckles bloodied from the harsh stone of his sling but his eyes bright with belonging.

Visenya watched her, something fierce and possessive in her gaze. She stepped close, one hand settling on Lyarra’s waist, her breath hot against her ear. “They follow you,” she said softly, her voice like the promise of steel. “They see what I see.”

Lyarra’s breath caught, her heart hammering in her chest, but she didn’t look away. “Then let them see,” she whispered back, her fingers closing over Visenya’s where they rested against her hip.

The sun climbed higher, and the drills went on. Above them, the dragons wheeled and played in the bright blue sky, shadows flickering across the fields as they glided low. The soldiers raised their eyes to watch—just for a moment—before returning to their work.

For now, there was no battle to fight, no city to take. Just the slow, careful work of forging an army and a bond that would not break. And in the quiet heat of the day, with sweat drying on their skin and purpose burning in their hearts, it was enough.

The morning sun was already high in the sky, casting warm light across the pale stones of the palace courtyard. The low murmur of voices echoed off marble arches, but the focus of every pair of eyes was on Lyarra .

She stood tall at the center of the square, dark hair braided back tight against the sweat that clung to her brow and neck. Her deep red tunic clung damply to her chest, the open throatline leaving a dark triangle of skin where her breath rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She moved among the recruits—newly freed men and women, some still with the wary eyes of slaves, others with the fire of the newly liberated—her voice calm and commanding as she corrected their stances.

“Watch your feet,” she said, tapping a young woman’s boot with the flat of her practice sword. “Your power starts here. No balance, no strike.” She stepped back, watching, nodding once as the woman adjusted, her spear coming up higher.

Her commands cut through the murmurs, spoken not as orders but as truth. “Keep your line—your brother on your left, your sister on your right. You hold each other up, or you fall together.”

A few of the older men in the ranks, once city guards now stripped of their livery, exchanged glances but did not question her. They moved with the careful obedience of men who’d seen what she could do with steel.

She treated them all the same. Not as children to be coddled, but as warriors in the making. And they responded—backs straightening, chins lifting, sweat shining on foreheads that had once known only chains.

On the steps above the courtyard, Visenya leaned against the carved stone, arms crossed over her chest, her chainmail sleeves glinting in the harsh sun. Her smile was small and private, a flicker of pride and something deeper in her violet eyes.

She let Lyarra have the space, only speaking when she saw a blade falter or a shield drop too low. “Higher guard—good,” she called out once, her voice as clear as a bell ringing across the square. The recruit corrected instantly, jaw tightening with determination.

But mostly, she just watched. Her gaze devoured every line of Lyarra’s body—every smooth shift of muscle beneath the damp red linen, every flick of her wrist as she guided the recruits’ forms. There was no doubting the raw, restless hunger in her eyes.

Lyarra, for her part, felt it. Every time she glanced up, she saw Visenya’s eyes on her, felt the heat of that gaze burn hotter than the sun itself. And she didn’t shy from it—instead, she stood taller, her voice firmer, her presence commanding in a way that made the entire courtyard quiet and focused around her.

The drills ended an hour later, the recruits panting, sweat-slick and flushed but standing taller than they had before. Lyarra dismissed them with a nod, her voice still calm even as her pulse raced beneath her skin.

Visenya was waiting at the bottom of the steps when Lyarra turned. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She reached out, her fingers curling tight around Lyarra’s wrist as she pulled her back against the courtyard wall. The warm stone at Lyarra’s back was nothing compared to the heat of Visenya’s body pressed close, the sudden, fierce kiss that claimed her mouth.

Lyarra gasped, breathless, her hands gripping Visenya’s hips as the older woman’s mouth moved against hers—hungry, possessive, tasting sweat and desire in equal measure.

When she finally pulled back, Visenya’s voice was a rough whisper against her lips. “You’re beautiful when you lead,” she murmured, her breath ragged, her eyes dark with want.

Lyarra swallowed hard, her own breath catching. “And you… you’re beautiful when you watch me.”

Visenya’s low laugh was a growl, her fingers sliding up to tangle in Lyarra’s hair. “Then lead us to victory, wolf. Lead us all.”

Lyarra kissed her again, quick and fierce, before pulling back. The recruits were already returning, gathering in small groups to drink water and share a few soft words of hope.

But Visenya’s hand lingered on her waist, fingers brushing the skin just above her belt as she murmured, “Later,” her promise as sharp and sure as the steel at her hip.

And with that, they turned back to the day’s work.

~

Daenerys moved through the sun-warmed streets of Yunkai with a quiet, deliberate grace that belied the weight of her presence. The city was stirring around her—its once-oppressed people blinking in the bright light of freedom, their voices hushed but hopeful as they worked to rebuild what the Masters had stolen from them.

She wore no crown and carried no scepter, but no one who saw her doubted her power. It was in the tilt of her chin, the steady calm of her violet gaze, the way the morning light seemed to glow against the pale silk of her dress. And it was in the dragon that walked at her side— Drakarion , jet-black scales shimmering faintly with each measured step.

He moved with the languid confidence of a creature born of fire and sky, his sinuous neck swaying as he peered into narrow alleys and over low rooftops. When children gathered in doorways, eyes wide with wonder, he paused to watch them—tail flicking, head cocked—but if any of them reached out, his growl was soft but unmistakable, a warning without malice. They drew back, wide-eyed and breathless, and Daenerys would smile—warm, reassuring—before turning her attention back to the people who needed her.

Missandei walked just behind her, slate in hand, her quick, neat script following each new request Dany spoke. Her small mouth moved in low murmurs of translation whenever a local dialect strayed too far from the High Valyrian Dany spoke so fluidly.

Daenerys paused beside a healer’s tent, where a young girl sat on a stool, her thin leg wrapped in fresh white bandages. The girl looked up with wary eyes, her small hands clutching the hem of her mother’s tunic. Dany knelt, one hand brushing the girl’s knee with infinite gentleness.

“Who bound it?” she asked, her voice soft as she examined the clean, tight wrapping.

“A freedman,” Missandei translated for the girl’s mother, who nodded quickly, her eyes bright with worry.

Daenerys nodded, offering the girl a small, reassuring smile. “Tell him he did well,” she said. “And make sure she has enough to eat. She’ll heal faster.”

The girl’s mother burst into tears, her hands pressed together in silent thanks. Daenerys rose and moved on, the air around her still charged with the memory of that small kindness.

She stopped at a group of engineers next, where wooden frames were being erected to shore up a crumbling corner of the city wall. The men paused in their work as she approached—sweaty, sunburned, but straight-backed. She asked about water for the workers, about how soon the new wells would be ready, about the strength of the timber they were using. She listened with unwavering patience, her gaze steady, her questions precise.

Drakarion prowled ahead, sniffing at the dusty air, his scales catching the light in flickers of red and copper. No one dared reach for him, though some of the younger men couldn’t seem to tear their eyes away. He ignored them all—except when one boy stumbled in his haste to move a plank, a sudden clatter that drew a low, rumbling growl from the dragon’s throat. The boy froze, eyes wide, but Drakarion merely sniffed and moved on, tail twitching once in mild irritation.

Missandei leaned in close, her voice low but edged with quiet laughter. “He’s like a hound,” she said in Valyrian, her eyes bright as she watched Drakarion’s casual stalk. “If the hound had wings and fire in its belly.”

Daenerys smiled faintly, her gaze drifting to the dragon’s swaying tail. “He is a hound—and a prince,” she said softly. “And he is mine.”

The word was soft, but there was no mistaking the steel behind it.

As she moved from street to street—pausing to speak to freedmen rebuilding homes, to a mother nursing a child in the shade of a half-collapsed portico—she felt the weight of it all pressing down on her. She was not the voice of command here. Not as Visenya was, with her steel-edged calm, or as Lyarra was, with her ferocious strength. Here, Daenerys was the heart of the Dragon, the mother who offered comfort and calm, the balm to soothe the fresh wounds of freedom.

But she was no less dangerous for that.

Everywhere she walked, the people watched her. Their eyes clung to her pale hair, her quiet smile, the way she asked for names and stories as if they mattered. And when she moved on, their voices rose softly behind her: Mhysa . A word of promise, of hope, of belonging.

When she paused again at the edge of the market square, she looked back the way she’d come—Missandei at her side, Drakarion stalking silent and watchful. The sun rose higher still, glinting off the cracked tiles and the battered stones, but Daenerys stood unbowed.

She would see Yunkai whole again. And when she marched for Meereen, she would carry not just her dragons, not just her blood, but the voices of these freed souls, all calling her mother. And that, she thought, was power too.

~

That evening, the garden was bathed in the soft light of torches flickering in the dusk, their gentle glow painting the pale marble paths with warm gold. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of night-blooming flowers—jasmine and moon lilies, thick vines heavy with blossoms that turned their pale faces to the darkening sky.

This was their garden tonight—small and walled by ancient stone, hidden from the press of the city’s rebirth. Here, they were not queens or warriors, not conquerors or saviors. Just three women, the night, and the creatures they called family.

The dragons tumbled across the trimmed grass like children in a festival game. Drakarion stalked the nearest torch, his shadow dancing on the walls as he lunged and snapped at the dancing flame with playful irritation, his low growl muffled by the rumble of amusement beneath it.

Sylveris twined herself around Daenerys’s legs, her pale scales shimmering like moonlight, a cool balm against the sweat that still clung to Dany’s skin from the long day. Every time Daenerys shifted, Sylveris adjusted, winding tighter around her calf as if to hold her there, a living chain of affection.

Aenryx and Ghost were locked in a fierce tug-of-war, each holding an end of a length of canvas torn from an old merchant’s tent. Ghost’s muzzle wrinkled in silent joy, tail sweeping in broad arcs as Aenryx chirped and pulled, her ivory wings flaring in quick excitement. They strained and tugged, two white shadows beneath the flickering torchlight.

Nira clung to Lyarra’s shoulder, her tiny claws pricking lightly against the soft linen of her tunic. Lyarra’s hand rose to toss a stick—no more than a slender branch snapped from a flowering tree—and Nira launched after it with a delighted trill, wings flaring as she caught it midair. She landed with a triumphant squeak, tail flicking back and forth in self-satisfaction.

At Visenya’s side, Vaelyx wound himself around her legs, his scales a glimmering green and bronze tapestry beneath the light. When one of the garden’s ancient statues cracked in the night breeze, Vaelyx gave a low, warning growl that turned into a deep, affectionate rumble when Visenya’s hand slid down to scratch his snout. “Easy, darling,” she murmured, her voice husky with wonder and an edge of protectiveness. “You’re growing so fast.”

Lyarra was close enough to catch the low note of awe in her voice, and she leaned in, her forehead coming to rest against Visenya’s shoulder. The sweat-slick warmth of their skin met in a quiet shock of heat and comfort. Her breath brushed Visenya’s ear, soft as the breeze that stirred the leaves.

“Like us,” she whispered.

Visenya’s arm wrapped around her waist, fingers splaying across the small of her back in a possessive, grounding hold. “Yes,” she breathed back, her eyes never leaving the flickering torches beyond the garden walls. “Like us. Growing. Stronger. Together.”

Daenerys watched them with that soft, knowing smile she wore when the world was hers to cherish and protect. She reached out, her fingers brushing along the inside of Lyarra’s wrist where the pulse beat fast and steady. “And just as fierce,” she said, her voice low but clear, echoing the dragons’ contented growls as they sprawled across the warm grass.

In that small, hidden garden, with the hush of night around them and the quiet joy of dragons at play, the three of them found something rare: a moment of peace, unguarded and unashamed.

And for a while—just a little while—they let themselves be nothing more than three women in the night, bound by blood and fire and the slow, steady pulse of love that needed no battle to prove its strength.

As night settled about the city they moved back through the quiet palace halls in a hush of footfalls and soft laughter, leaving behind the night-scented garden and the dragons sprawled in watchful slumber. The flicker of torchlight along the mosaic floors only deepened the shadows around them, turning the cool stone corridors into something more intimate—almost secret. Every glance was a promise, every brush of fingers a quiet dare.

Their shared chambers were cool and shadowed when they stepped inside, but the bath that waited beyond was steaming—a deep, sunken tub hewn from marble, the water still roiling from the heat of the braziers set around it. Steam rose in pale clouds, filling the air with the scents of desert herbs—crushed mint, rose petals drifting languidly across the surface, the faint bite of cedar.

They paused at the edge of the bath, fingers moving in unspoken accord. Daenerys undid the sash at Lyarra’s waist first, tugging the deep red linen free with a practiced flick, letting it puddle at her feet. Lyarra’s tunic slipped from one shoulder, exposing the swell of her breast, and Daenerys’s lips curved as she leaned in, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the line of her collarbone.

Visenya’s hands were already there, slipping beneath the loosened fabric to cup Lyarra’s breasts, thumbs brushing across the sensitive peaks until Lyarra gasped softly, her hips swaying in an unconscious offering. “Beautiful,” Visenya murmured, her voice rough with want, the word itself a caress.

They stripped one another slowly, savoring the feel of warm skin, of shifting breath. Every brush of cloth became an excuse to touch, to taste—Daenerys’s mouth on Visenya’s shoulder, the soft bite of Lyarra’s teeth at the base of Dany’s neck. Fingers skimmed over hips, brushed across ribs, slid down to tease the soft heat between thighs. Every inch of skin was claimed with gentle reverence and unrestrained hunger.

The bath was a basin of near-boiling water, the air thick with scented oils that clung to their skin — rose and sandalwood, jasmine and smoke. They stepped in together, hands brushing over hips and thighs, fingers tracing the curve of breasts, the slope of collarbones. A hiss escaped Lyarra’s lips at the water’s heat, but Daenerys soothed her with a soft murmur, gentle hands on her shoulders, sliding down her arms to twine their fingers together beneath the surface. Visenya’s lips curved in a slow, knowing smile as she watched, her gaze lingering on the way Lyarra’s strong, muscled frame shifted in the water, how the flicker of candlelight caught the silvery streaks in her hair.

Visenya guided them deeper into the steaming pool, her movements deliberate and commanding. She settled herself on the smooth stone ledge, legs parting beneath the water’s surface, the faint glow of her eyes almost hypnotic. The water lapped at her thighs, at the slick folds of her sex now glistening in the warm, rippling light. She reached for Lyarra, threading her fingers through the dark hair that spilled over Lyarra’s broad shoulders, tugging her forward with a firmness that brooked no refusal.

“Come here, little wolf,” she said, her voice low and husky, every word curling like smoke around them. “Let me feel that hunger.”

Lyarra obeyed, her breath quickening as she knelt between Visenya’s parted legs. Her lips parted to release a quiet, shaky moan as she pressed closer, her mouth hovering over the soft, wet heat of Visenya’s core. Daenerys slipped in behind her, hands gentle on her waist, fingertips ghosting over her ribs. She pressed soft, soothing kisses to Lyarra’s shoulders, her own arousal evident in the flush that spread across her chest.

Visenya’s fingers tightened in Lyarra’s hair, guiding her down until her mouth was pressed to the slick folds of Visenya’s cunt, tongue sliding over the swollen bud of her clit in a slow, languid swirl. Visenya gasped, a soft, controlled sound — “Hnnn… just like that…” — her hips rolling forward to meet the searching warmth of Lyarra’s mouth.

Daenerys watched, eyes heavy-lidded, one hand reaching down between Lyarra’s parted thighs. She slipped her fingers along the slick heat she found there, feeling the way Lyarra trembled at the dual sensation — her mouth filled with Visenya’s taste, her own body trembling as Daenerys teased her open. Two fingers pushed into her, slow and deliberate, stretching her gently even as Lyarra let out a throaty moan — “Aah… gods, Dany…”

Daenerys cooed softly, pressing her lips to the nape of Lyarra’s neck, her other hand stroking the tense muscles of her back. “Shh… easy, my sweet wolf,” she whispered, fingers working deeper, curling to stroke that tender place inside Lyarra that made her whimper and grind her hips. “You’re safe here… so wet for us, aren’t you?”

Lyarra’s answering moan was muffled against Visenya’s slick folds, her tongue working in desperate, fervent strokes. She tasted the salt and musk of Visenya’s heat, the way her sister’s scent filled her lungs, and it set her blood aflame. Her hips bucked back against Daenerys’s hand, her thighs trembling with every teasing thrust.

Visenya’s hand tightened in Lyarra’s hair, pulling her closer, her own breath catching as she tilted her hips forward. “Good girl… gods, Lyarra… your mouth… just like that,” she murmured, her voice dropping into a husky growl. She watched Daenerys over Lyarra’s shoulder, their gazes locking in silent understanding. “Deeper, Dany… let her feel it. Let her know she’s ours.”

Daenerys smiled, her own breath coming faster as she added a third finger, the stretch making Lyarra cry out, her muffled whimper vibrating against Visenya’s clit. “Sssh… you can take it,” Daenerys murmured, her own voice gone low and sweet, like honey melting over hot coals. “You love this, don’t you? The way we touch you… the way we taste you…”

“Y-yes,” Lyarra gasped, pulling back just long enough to moan, her breath ragged. “I need it… need you both…” She dove back in, her tongue working with desperate fervor, licking and sucking at the throbbing bud of Visenya’s clit, her hands clutching at the warrior’s hips to anchor herself in the swirl of sensation.

Visenya’s breath hitched, her thighs clamping around Lyarra’s head, her fingers threading deeper into her hair. “Hnnn… fuck… yes… you’re mine like this, wolf… all mine,” she growled, her hips rolling in slow, relentless circles against Lyarra’s mouth.

Daenerys’s fingers moved faster, her own moans soft and breathless as she worked Lyarra open. “You’re shaking for us, sweet wolf… can you feel it? How wet you are… how much you want it?” she murmured, her thumb circling the swollen bud of Lyarra’s clit, slick and throbbing beneath her touch.

Lyarra’s whole body trembled, caught between them, every nerve ending alight. She was dizzy with it — the heat, the taste of Visenya on her tongue, the way Daenerys filled her with those gentle, insistent fingers. Her moans were muffled but desperate, each breath a ragged plea. “Mmmnn… gods… don’t stop… please don’t stop…”

Daenerys pressed a kiss to her spine, her breath warm and sweet against her skin. “We won’t, my love,” she whispered, her fingers curling again, drawing another cry from Lyarra’s lips. “We won’t stop until you’re undone for us…”

Visenya’s voice was a low, resonant purr, her thighs tightening as her pleasure built. “Look at her, Dany… she’s perfect like this… greedy and eager… our wild wolf…” She tilted her hips forward, letting out a deep, breathy moan — “Aaah… yes… just like that… gods…”

Daenerys’s fingers slipped faster, the wet sounds of Lyarra’s arousal echoing in the bath chamber, mingling with the soft splashes of water as their bodies moved together. Lyarra’s moans grew louder, more urgent, her mouth working Visenya’s clit with frantic devotion as she bucked back against Daenerys’s hand, her breath breaking into ragged gasps.

“Fuck… please… I’m… I’m so close…” she moaned, her voice high and shaking.

Daenerys’s eyes glowed with tender heat as she pressed her lips to Lyarra’s ear, her voice a promise and a command all at once. “Then let go, my fierce girl… give it to us. We want all of it… every last drop of you.”

Visenya’s hand tightened in her hair, pulling her in for one final, desperate lick, her own hips grinding forward as she let out a guttural cry — “Aah… gods, yes… Lyarra… fuck!” — her climax washing over her in a shuddering wave, her breath ragged and deep.

Lyarra whimpered at the taste of Visenya’s release, her own body pushed over the edge by Daenerys’s insistent touch. She gasped, her cry echoing in the bath chamber as her orgasm tore through her — “Aah… ahhh… gods…!” — her muscles clenching around Daenerys’s fingers, her body shaking with release.

Daenerys held her through it, her own breath warm and sweet against her skin. She slowed her movements, easing Lyarra down from that blinding peak with gentle, coaxing strokes, her lips pressed to her shoulder. “Breathe, my wolf,” she whispered, her voice soft as silk. “You’re perfect… so perfect…”

Lyarra collapsed against Visenya’s thigh, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her lips still wet with her sister’s taste. Visenya’s hand was gentle in her hair now, her other hand brushing soothingly along the curve of her cheek. “Good girl… you’ve done so well,” she murmured, her own body still trembling with the aftershocks of her release.

Water sluiced off their bodies, glistening where torchlight caressed pale skin and darker muscle. Pools gathered in the valley of Daenerys’s breasts, dripping in slow rivulets along Lyarra’s sculpted stomach, cooling on the plush rug as they toppled heedless from the bath, drunk on each other’s taste and scent. Lyarra still burned with Visenya’s heat thick on her tongue, and Daenerys pulled her into a searing kiss, lips greedy, tongue swirling and coaxing—her little moans muffled, hungry, coating Lyarra’s lips with her craving.

Visenya watched, pupils blown wide, wet hair coiled about her chest and shoulders, hunger written in every line of her powerful frame. She stalked over, seizing them each by the hair—gentle but unyielding, a handful for each—a queen regarding her most treasured, most secret treasures.

“Kneel, wolf,” she commanded, voice a dark silk whip. Lyarra’s knees slapped the rug, fists balled at her thighs, tremoring with need, head tipped up to meet Visenya’s gaze. “Do not dare touch yourself. Not until I say.”

Then Visenya’s weight pinned Daenerys, straddling her, wet slick thighs pressing to Daenerys’s softer curves. Dany’s eyes fluttered, hands rising on instinct to grip Visenya’s strong thighs—only to have them shoved aside, forced flat to the rug, wrists pinned.

One of Visenya’s hands slid inexorably to Daenerys’s throat, thumb tracing the frantic pulse beneath the skin, palm squeezing just enough to make Daenerys’s breath hitch, cheeks flushed to fever. The other dipped between Daenerys’s thighs, spreading her wide, fingers finding her already soaking, needy, trembling. She teased along slippery folds, slow circles up and under, then pressed two fingers deep, a deliberate claiming matched by the pressure on Daenerys’s throat.

Beneath her, Daenerys’s back arched like a bow, mouth falling open in a shivering gasp. Visenya’s mouth was everywhere—nipping and biting along pale, glistening breasts, tugging at nipples with her sharp teeth, then dragging her tongue down Daenerys’s stomach, slow enough to leave a burning trail of fire and want.

Lyarra watched, breathing rapid, hands fisted against her own thighs to obey—body so eager it shook, droplets shivering down the sleek lines of her arms. She saw Visenya’s tongue dip low, licking along Daenerys’s slit, then suckling her clit; watched Daenerys writhe, keening, pinned helpless in the dragon queen’s grip. Visenya’s hands clamped around Daenerys’s thighs, forcing them wider, drawing wanton cries that echoed back off marble and water.

Visenya lifted her eyes, gaze fierce and violet-bright, holding Lyarra’s as she pressed her tongue ruthlessly to Daenerys’s clit, working her fingers deep in time—watching Lyarra’s torment and delight, feeding on the girl’s trembling obedience, the scent of heat and storm and wild dragonfire swirling between the three.

Visenya moaned into Daenerys’s flesh, savoring every ripple and helpless plea, every buck of Daenerys’s hips—the promise in her smirk a bright threat: you’ll both have your turn, when I’m ready, when you’ve begged enough.

Visenya’s tongue was a slow, merciless storm—circling Daenerys’s clit, never giving the final pressure needed, retreating whenever Dany’s thighs trembled on the verge. Her fingers thrust and curled, dragging soft whimpers and bitten-off moans from Daenerys’s lips, the queen’s body flushed and desperate, hips rising only to be forced down by iron-strong hands.

She stopped, just barely: teasing, flicking, then pulling away, smiling up with lips slick and eyes alight with something wicked. “Look at you,” Visenya purred, voice sharp as a drawn blade, “already so wet, so needy, just from my tongue and little Lyarra’s gaze.” She stroked Daenerys’s thigh, nails bright against the pale skin. “Is that what you want, my dragon? To come like a common whore sprawled on the floor for my amusement?”

Daenerys trembled beneath her, leaking for Visenya’s rough care, breath stuttering every time she nearly tipped over the edge then was denied. “Please, Visenya—please, let me—” She broke off, whimpering when Visenya withdrew her hand entirely, dragging her slickness up her stomach.

“No.” Visenya leaned in, lips brushing hot over Daenerys’s ear. “You’ll come when I say, not before. Be good, or I’ll drag it out all night and watch you sob.”

She twisted, catching Lyarra’s stare—hunger and frustration raw in those violet eyes, body bowed taut and desperate, fists pressed so hard to her thighs her knuckles were white. “And you—look at you, Lyarra. Kneeling there with your mouth open, drooling for our taste, thighs squeezed together like a needy pup. Does it ache, wolf? Does it burn? Are you helpless just from watching us, having never learned how to master that wild body of yours?”

Lyarra bit her lip, trembling. Her voice was hoarse, every word a confession. “Yes, Visenya, it hurts—I want—”

Visenya cut her off with a laugh, low and cruel. “Want? You can’t even control yourself enough to speak. Pathetic and eager both.” She twisted her hand in Daenerys’s hair and forced her to look at Lyarra, to see the agony etched across the kneeling woman’s face.

“See her, Daenerys? Our good little wolf, desperate to please. Tell her how badly you need to come. Beg for me. Beg for her, lips so slick and red. Maybe if I see enough shame on your faces I’ll let one of you finish.”

She curved her fingers, dragged her tongue across Daenerys’s clit, brought her to the very brink again, holding her open, helpless—all while Lyarra whimpered and squirmed, denied even a touch. Visenya’s words lashed them both, every humiliation dripping with satisfaction and promise. “You’ll both thank me for this—thank me for every second you’re kept empty, every filthy word you swallow, every time you’re denied until you can barely remember your own names.”

Daenerys writhed, helpless on the rug beneath Visenya’s grip, sweat and water mixing in shining rivulets down her breasts. Her hips arched, thighs trembling, every muscle quivering on the edge of release she’d been taunted with, denied.

“Please, Visenya,” she keened, voice frayed to velvet threads, “please let me come, gods, I need it, I need you—”

Visenya’s smirk was pure predatory delight, fingers sinking deep, her tongue tracing a slow, purposeful circle around Daenerys’s aching clit. “Yes, beg,” she hissed, voice thick with command and affection both. “Say whose cunt this is. Tell your wolf how you break for me.”

“Yours,” Daenerys gasped, eyes wild as storm-tossed sea. “Only yours, only—”

Visenya’s tongue pressed flat and unrelenting, plunging inside Daenerys, lips sealing around her, devouring every trembling spasm as Dany shattered—head thrown back, cry echoing off marble, body bucking against Visenya’s iron grip. The climax rolled through her, unstoppable, molten, leaving her limp and spent.

Visenya wiped her mouth, violet eyes wicked as sin, then crooked a finger at Lyarra. “Come, wolf. Show your devotion. Taste her ecstasy from my tongue, from her soft, ruined cunt.”

Lyarra crawled forward, hunger and awe scraping every line of her face. She pressed her mouth between Daenerys’s splayed thighs, tongue greedy and reverent, lapping every drop of slick, trembling as the taste of climax and salt filled her mouth. Visenya watched intently, one hand fisting in Lyarra’s hair, the other coming down with a sharp, ringing smack on Lyarra’s ass—one, then two, heat blooming scarlet beneath her palm.

“Good girl,” Visenya murmured, then slipped her fingers down, finding Lyarra’s clit, rolling it between callused fingertips. “Let go. Come for us. Now.”

Lyarra moaned into Daenerys’s trembling sex, hips bucking, her own need igniting—Visenya’s fingers relentless, the order burning in her veins. She came hard, shuddering, mouth still pressed to Daenerys’s heat, soaked with the taste of her queens and the approval in Visenya’s snarling, satisfied laugh.

The three collapsed in a slick, tangled heap—sated for now, but already the dragonfire in their blood promised the hunger would return, hotter than ever.

Silence blossomed golden in the aftermath, thick and sweet as honey on their tongues. The heat of their bodies banked but never spent, the cool marble and plush rug traded for the vastness of their bed—silk sheets tangled, pillows sliding to the floor, the scent of sex and dragonfire lingering in the air like incense for old gods.

Visenya led them, guiding each with gentle hands—no longer the iron-fisted queen but their anchor, ever watchful as exhaustion crept in soft behind sated muscle and ragged breath. She dried Daenerys first, slow circles of the towel, nuzzling a kiss behind her ear, tracing every curve with tenderness, like repairing a precious vase cherished for centuries. Then Lyarra, whose storm was spent—Visenya’s fingers combed the wild knots from her hair, checking for bruises, whispering, “I’ve got you, little wolf. You took everything so well.”

Daenerys pressed close, curling against Visenya’s side, her silver hair mussed across bare breasts. She pressed her lips to Visenya’s jaw—one, two, three soft kisses—her hands tracing the old white scars on Visenya’s body, the ones only their eyes were ever allowed to see. “You’re always careful with us,” she murmured, “even after you make us beg. I love that about you.”

Visenya’s arms circled them both, drawing Lyarra into the warm hollow of her body. She stroked Lyarra’s hip, thumb brushing soothing circles, gaze soft as violet dusk. “You’re mine,” she said, the words not a command but pure promise, murmured flesh to flesh. “But I’m yours, too. Both of you. All ways, always.”

Lyarra looked up, cheeks still flushed, mouth parted in wonder. She tucked herself beneath Visenya’s arm, sharp-fierce but vulnerable in her quiet. “You could break me,” she whispered, voice rough as gravel, “but you just hold me tight instead.” A bashful smile. “Thank you.”

In the hush, Daenerys reached for Lyarra’s hand, threading their fingers together on Visenya’s stomach, holding them all close, their hearts beating steady and matched, a rhythm older than fire.

Visenya met both their eyes, shifting tenderly as Daenerys claimed her arm for a pillow and Lyarra curled against her chest, nose brushing the crook of her collarbone. “Sleep,” she whispered, and she stayed awake the longest—watching them drift out, her hands on their backs, breathing them in and tucking her love around them like armor, fierce and soft as dragonwing.

Chapter 16: XVI

Summary:

The march to Meereen begins.

Notes:

Okay, so wasn't quite hit by the AO3 curse but have had a really busy past week or so and not had a good chance to write, so sorry for the late update!

Also I have decided to create a discord/rework my old server that never saw use into something as a central point for my writings if anyone is interested. Will be my wild rambles, WIP's, sneak peeks and a place for other writers to come and share their thoughts and works - link here

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XVI

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The morning air was thick with dust and promise.

Yunkai stirred behind them, its yellow-brick walls softened by distance, the banners of the Dragon's Host rippling atop makeshift towers and palisades. The city was still being reshaped—its scars still healing—but for the Dragon Queens, the time had come to move on. Meereen awaited to the east, proud and defiant behind its pyramids and slave-markets. But before the march could begin, final preparations took place. Soldiers drilled, scouts were dispatched, and supplies were tallied beneath the sun.

Lyarra stood near the edge of the camp, Ghost seated at her side like a statue carved of moonlight and muscle, his red eyes always scanning. The morning sun caught the red of her tunic, the one Visenya always teased her for stealing. Her arms were crossed, her brow furrowed—not from frustration, but thought. She was staring at a white-bearded knight across the yard. Arstan Whitebeard, as he'd called himself. The one who always bowed too properly, moved too precisely, and whose voice, though calm, never wavered in the wrong places.

She knew him.

And not just from Yunkai. It had taken her days to place the memory, to drag it up from the haze of half-forgotten years before her exile. But it was there: a visit to Winterfell during her twelfth nameday. Robert Baratheon had come north, dragging his entourage in his wake. Among them, a white cloak.

"Ghost," she murmured. The direwolf turned his head slightly. "Stay."

She moved across the yard in a few quick strides, boots kicking up dust. Arstan was speaking quietly to one of the Auxiliary lieutenants, his tone measured and formal. But he noticed her approach immediately. Of course he did. Even in disguise, he was a Kingsguard. Or had been.

"Lady Lyarra," he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

She stopped a pace away from him. Her voice was sharp and low.

"You’re not Arstan. Not really."

The man’s back stiffened. For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then: "No. I am not."

Lyarra glanced around. No one nearby. The Auxiliaries were returning to their drills. The yard was theirs.

"I saw you in Winterfell," she continued, eyes narrowing. "You stood behind Robert. Behind Cersei. You wore white. You bowed to a usurper."

The man lowered his head.

"I did."

She folded her arms. "So what name do you go by now, Kingsguard?"

The white-bearded knight finally met her eyes. There was shame in them. And something older—grief.

"Barristan. Barristan Selmy. Once Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Once sworn to your father."

Lyarra felt her stomach twist. The name hit like a blow.

"You were with him? With Rhaegar?"

"I served him. And his father. I failed them both."

Her voice was bitter. "You served Robert, too."

Barristan bowed his head again. "Yes. After your father died on the Trident. After the Mad King burned. I thought the realm needed peace. That it needed men of honor to protect the weak. I thought—wrongly—that I could do good even under a usurper."

Lyarra turned her face slightly, watching Ghost stretch in the distance. Her fingers twitched against the worn leather bracer on her wrist.

"You failed my father."

"I did," Barristan agreed. "He died alone. I was not there to shield him. He died with a song on his lips, and I was not beside him."

The confession was raw, worn smooth by years of silence.

"But you’re here now," Lyarra said slowly.

Barristan nodded. "I swore myself to Daenerys Targaryen. I saw in her the same fire I once followed in Rhaegar. And now... in you, Lady Lyarra, I see the same steel."

She clenched her jaw.

"I don’t trust Mormont," she said. "He stares too long. He judges with his eyes. And his past is filled with shadows."

Barristan’s face was unreadable. "Then let me earn your trust. I ask no forgiveness. Only the chance to serve. To protect what I once failed."

Lyarra studied him. The wind tugged at her braid, at the red hem of her tunic.

She didn’t know if she trusted him. But there was something in his voice. A thread of truth that rang clean.

"If we are to have a Queensguard," she said at last, "I want at least one man in it I can trust. Someone who sees us for who we are, not who he wants us to be."

Barristan bowed, deeper this time. No false grandeur. No pride.

"Then I am yours, my queen."

She blinked.

"I’m not a queen."

He straightened. "Not yet."

From behind them, Ghost trotted forward, nose twitching as he approached Barristan and circled him once. The knight remained still.

Then Ghost sat.

And said nothing.

Lyarra exhaled and nodded.

"Then let’s get to work."

And together, they turned toward the camp, the rising sun casting long shadows behind them.

~

The camp was dissolving around them—tents collapsing in clouds of yellow dust, soldiers marshaling in orderly chaos while the dragons circled overhead, shadows wheeling over the dry grass. Armor clinked, carts creaked, and the cacophony of men and steel and shouted orders tangled in the sunlight.

Visenya stood tall on a hummock, arms crossed, wind tugging at her braids and the hem of her linen undertunic. The battered old city watched from afar, yellow walls receding with every minute. Her face was hard as dragonbone—eyes everywhere, missing nothing. Daenerys was beside her, studying supply lists in Lysene script, lips pursed in concentration. Lyarra approached, boots crunching on the packed earth, a knot cramping behind her ribs. Ghost slunk at her heel, tongue lolling, unconcerned.

They turned toward her as one—their center of gravity, the pull she could never wholly escape. She gave Visenya a significant look, then Daenerys, then forced herself to stop fidgeting.

“I spoke with Arstan.” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.

Visenya raised a sardonic brow. “The cryptic old knight? Did he finally admit he was someone’s lost grandfather?”

Lyarra shook her head slowly. “He’s not an Arstan. He’s Barristan Selmy.”

Daenerys’s eyes lifted from her parchments—wide, silver, astonished. “Barristan the Bold?”

“The very same,” Lyarra confirmed. “He served my father. Served your brother, Visenya. Served Aerys—all the way to the end. Then Robert. I recognized him from Winterfell, when Robert came north. He—he’s ashamed, Dany. He wishes he’d done more, been better. Hated himself for failing Rhaegar.”

For a ragged moment, the only sound was the wind worrying the standards overhead, snapping the black-and-red dragon and ghost-white wolf upon their poles.

Visenya’s lips quirked, something sly and almost gentle at the corner of her mouth. “Well. A little battered, perhaps, but he’s a better ornament than Mormont and a great deal less likely to leer over your shoulder at night.”

Lyarra’s jaw twitched. “He begged forgiveness, not knowing how to ask. He wants to serve us. I…told him yes. If we’re to have a Queensguard, I want someone I trust. Someone with real honor—not just a dog sniffing for favor.”

Visenya’s gaze sharpened, intent and dangerous. There was pride there, too. She stepped down from the hummock, every line of her body coiled like a sword in velvet. “You made the call?”

Lyarra nodded, uncertain now, heart thumping behind her ribs. “If I overstepped—”

Daenerys cut in, her voice a gentle current, soothing and resolute both. “Lyarra.” She set down her lists and caught Lyarra’s gloved hand, squeezing. Her thumb stroked over Lyarra’s scarred knuckles. “You didn’t overstep. Not in this, not ever. We do this together. Queens and wolf.” She flashed a teasing grin, sunshine on snow. “No matter how much Visenya spanks you at night, you’re still our equal by day.”

Visenya let out a rich, dangerous laugh. “You’d be shocked how often she tries to take charge, Dany. You think she’s sweet until you see her with a blade in her teeth and a plan in her head.” She stepped in close, the three of them forming a small, private circle among the whirling host. Her hand cupped Lyarra’s jaw for a moment, thumb running rough over her cheek, a silent benediction. “You did exactly what I would have done. And better—you’ve got the sense not to be blinded by old scars.”

Lyarra’s chest tightened, relief dangerous and golden. For an instant, she almost shut her eyes, simply to savor—

But Daenerys was already scheming, the quicksilver in her veins never still. “This is good. Barristan is respected. He’ll help keep the Westerosi knights in line. And his name means something.”

Visenya’s mouth curled into a half-smile, fierce and proud. “I’ll want him tested, of course. Make sure the years haven’t dulled his edge. But I’d take one Barristan Selmy over a dozen Mormonts, any day. If he stays true, we’ll knight him as Lord Captain of our Queensguard. That will put the fear of gods and dragons into any would-be traitor still sniffing at the campfires.”

Lyarra let herself breathe, bowing her head for a heartbeat, then met Visenya’s eyes. “I do trust him. He could have lied, or run, or waited for some damn opportunity and he didn’t. I saw the truth on his face. He’s tired and lonely—but not broken. He wants a cause.”

Daenerys squeezed her hand once more, then released her, turning back to consult her lists. The sun gleamed in her hair, firelit and ethereal. “You are our cause, Lyarra. The three of us—all of us. We are the storm and the flame, the sword and the shield.” She looked up, deadly serious for a breath. “Let no one tell you otherwise.”

Lyarra flushed, unsure what to say. Visenya’s hand drifted to her lower back, thumb skating soothing circles through the linen.

Down in the ranks, the dragons were gathering—Drogon yawning, great jaws splitting, green-and-gold Vhagar crooning to her siblings. Soldiers began to stamp and murmur, carts rolling out in slow, juddering lines beyond the ruined arch of the city gate.

Visenya gave her a sidelong glance, mischief crackling in her violet gaze. “When we reach Meereen, we’ll let Barristan prove himself. I’d like to see if the Bold can still spar like a dragon’s right hand. Afterwards—” She leaned in, voice low and wicked, “—we’ll reward him with a feast, and I’ll reward my wolf for her excellent judgment. Perhaps…by letting her top for a night.”

Daenerys laughed, the sound bright as windchimes. “Only if you promise not to break the bed again. The carpenters still glare whenever they see us coming.”

Lyarra let her grin break loose—feral, joyful. The ache in her chest turned warm and wild. She looked between them: Visenya all angles and firelight, Daenerys a river of sun. For a heartbeat, the war and the world melted away, leaving only the three of them together in the high, humming sunlight.

“I’ll try not to break anything except our enemies,” she said quietly.

Visenya looked at her as if she’d hung the moon. “See that you don’t, wolf.” She nudged her shoulder, then turned back to the mustering ranks, barking orders with a voice that split the morning like thunder.

~

The Dragon’s Host spilled out from the bones of Yunkai in thunder and glittering steel, a river of banners and mail winding east onto the deathly pale plains. Sunlight hammered the column, glancing razor-sharp off scorpion housings, dancing on armor, glinting from spearpoints and the keen, ancient edge of Valyrian steel. Heat shimmered off the dust, a wavering mirage turning thirty thousand souls into a mythic thing—almost too immense, too alive, to be real.

At the head of the van rode the 1st Legion, four thousand Unsullied in perfect lockstep, their precision a living wall: spearpoints all canted with the same subtle defiance, helms shining like silent oaths. Behind them, banners fluttered—a red dragon, a white wolf, a silver phoenix, their new sigils blending Essos and Westeros into something terrifyingly new. The ranks billowed with smallfolk, slaves who’d seized swords, sellswords now sworn to a fiercer cause, and the great living curve of the Auxiliaries—a mass with the look of a rising tide: wall of shields, waves of slings and crossbows, then the clattering rattle of siege engines hidden and waiting.

Along the edges, the light horse swirled, a storm of dust and motion. Visenya had armed a third of them with crossbows—riders trained to swoop in, unleash a volley, and dash away before enemy skirmishers could so much as aim. The rest carried slings and javelins, iron hooks and heavy-curved knives—the tools of a thousand border wars, now sharpened for something bigger.

All morning, the ranks swelled and surged, banners flickering like flame. At their head, the three queens rode.

Visenya gleamed in midnight-blue leather and Valyrian steel: the mythic length of Dark Sister across her back, her face set in a cold, sunstruck mask broken by the occasional feral twist of her mouth. She rode atop a dappled gray charger, one hand easy on the reins, the other resting on her sword’s pommel—an unconscious promise of violence. Beside her, Daenerys glimmered, her hair unbound beneath a mail-backed veil, soft light on her pale cheeks, her dragon pin bright against the boiled leather of her armor. Her eyes glittered with cunning, flicking between officers and supply wagons, always calculating more than she voiced.

Lyarra rode a hulking black courser, Graywind, her linen faded and sun-bleached, her face shadowed beneath the hood. Frostbite rode her back; Emberfang rested strapped at her saddle, an unyielding promise of retribution. Her gaze kept flicking to the horizon. To the future. To Meereen, which waited on its pyramid. The white wolf at her side was silent, the northern dragon, Nira, skimming and glimmering above like a dawn-ghost, slipping between blue sky and banners.

The dragons flew above—Drakarion first and loudest, shadowing the ground, crimson spines ridged, wings scything the air in vast, lazy strokes. Sylveris was higher, circling her fellows with a matron’s eye, her calls short sharp cracks of sound. The younger dragons—Aenryx, Vaelyx, and Nira—ranged wide and playful, their games covering a battlefield’s width, their eyes always sliding back to the queens below.

Movement rolled through the column like the whisper of a coming storm. But after the first hour… it changed.

Ahead, nailed to every mile marker where the land’s emptiness split harsh against the road, hung horror: the Great Masters’ message. Crucifixes lanced the flatland—slaves nailed up for spectacle, mostly children, most barely old enough to crawl, their arms stretched wide and broken. Each a living rebuke. Each a scream made silent by dust and distance and the slow gnaw of crows.

Visenya’s face grew sharper with every marker. At the first, she rode forward without a word, dismounted, and herself lifted the corpse from the wood. Her hands, careful and precise, cradled the ruined child as though it might stir and cling to her. Daenerys knelt and wiped the blood from its face, her tears golden in the dust. Lyarra stood guard, knuckles white on Frostbite, face blank, rage terrible in its control.

They buried every single one.

They made the men watch—the Unsullied, the auxiliaries, the sellswords, the old slaves and the new. All who would ride for the Dragon Queens would witness, would feel that wound. By the third marker the rage of thirty thousand was a living thing, prowling at the edges of order, held in check only by the discipline of queens and dragons overhead.

It took a day to clear the first twelve miles. Every mile, the same: another broken body, another sun-bleached crucifix. Night fell and was thick with anger, the camp silent except for the wails of mothers whose sons and daughters had never had justice or peace. Ghost lay pressed to Lyarra’s side, Nira curled around his flank, and Daenerys wept with her head on Visenya’s shoulder, their anger pooled and ready.

On the second day, the road was the same—mile after mile of carnage and cruelty, each atrocity calculated to punish the queens for daring to defy the old powers. Drakarion shrieked above the host until it seemed the sun itself might shatter. The Auxiliaries marched as one, voice rising in old songs twisted into funeral dirges. The Unsullied—men made for stone—marched without blinking, but more than one officer spat curses as they worked, voices hard-edged and trembling.

Visenya rode ahead at dawn, her eyes rimmed in red. Every new slave she unhooked from the cross she laid in the earth herself, murmuring Valyrian prayers, lips moving like steel drawn from the scabbard.

“These will not be forgiven,” she said, voice a low, grinding thing. “We will not let them be forgotten.”

Daenerys rode at her elbow, face pale but unafraid. “We will show them justice, sister. In fire and in truth. No one else will die for our vengeance—only for our freedom.”

Lyarra was silent, her rage cold and endless as the night north of the Wall. Each time she dismounted, it got a shade harder to clamp her jaw, to hold back the urge to loose Frostbite and Emberfang and hunt the slavers herself. But the column needed order. Justice would come—soon.

At camp, that night, they summoned the commanders to their fire: Grey Worm, Missandei, the officers of the light horse and the auxiliaries—every soul who’d sworn to lead. Visenya’s voice cut the hush, clear and implacable.

“Their masters hide behind walls and steel, so they murder children and call it power,” she said, her words an incantation. “See their message. Let it not break you, but bind your fury. Mark every cross. Mark every child. Those who do this, we will claim them. The hands that drive nails into flesh will be fed to the fire. But we will give the victims what the masters never would—rest, and remembrance.” And her gaze, a sword, passed over each of them, daring any who wavered.

There was no wavering.

The third day, they found the first living child. Somewhere between agony and unconsciousness, a boy perhaps six years old, nailed but not yet dead. Lyarra cut him down herself, teeth bared as she pried the bent nails loose. Ghost nosed his wounds; Daenerys poured water, talking soft as dusk. Visenya rode ahead to hunt for slaver scouts—she returned with a severed hand in her fist and a fire in her eyes that made even her dragons wary.

As they stopped that night, Daenerys stood on a wagon and addressed the whole host—her voice catching, but carrying over the hush of three nations’ exiles.

“We are not the Great Masters,” she said. “We bury our dead, and mourn our children, and when victory comes, we will not shame ourselves with the tortures of cowards. But when the pyres are lit in Meereen, they will know who it was that never broke.”

The army cheered—some bitter, some weeping, but no hope lost to them yet.

~

The fire crackled between them, casting dancing shadows across the ordered rows of the Dragon's Host. Around them, the camp sprawled in perfect military precision—a testament to Grey Worm's training and the Unsullied discipline that had shaped their entire force. Torches marked the perimeter in steady lines, sentries paced their beats with measured steps, and the low murmur of thirty thousand voices created a constant backdrop of controlled chaos.

But here, in their small circle of firelight, the world had narrowed to just the three of them.

Visenya sat cross-legged on a fur, her posture relaxed but alert, violet eyes reflecting the flames as she methodically cut strips of roasted goat. Beside her, Daenerys picked delicately at flatbread and olives, while Lyarra stared into the fire with that distant look she'd worn since the last mile marker. Since the boy they'd found still breathing.

Ghost lay behind Lyarra like a pale mountain, red eyes watchful. The dragons had settled for the night—Drakarion sprawled near the command tents like a crimson-shadowed hill, his protective instincts keeping him close even in sleep. Sylveris had claimed the highest point she could find, perched regally on a supply wagon with her snow-white scales catching the moonlight. Aenryx roosted gracefully nearby, while Vaelyx had somehow managed to curl himself around both a water barrel and Aenryx's tail in what looked like an uncomfortable but affectionate tangle. Little Nira was closest to their fire, nestled against Ghost's flank, her pale scales shimmering like frost as she dozed.

The dragons occasionally shifted with soft rumbles that carried across the camp—Sylveris making a low, maternal sound when Vaelyx stirred too much, Drakarion's deeper growl answering from his watchful position. Even in sleep, they maintained their complex dynamics of protection and hierarchy.

The rage was still there, simmering beneath their skin like fever. It had been building for days—each crucified child another coal added to the fire. But here, now, it was transforming into something else. Something that made Lyarra's hands shake slightly as she reached for her cup.

"Eat," Visenya said quietly, not looking up from her cutting. It wasn't quite a command, but the undertone was there—gentle authority wrapped in concern.

Lyarra hadn't touched her food. She'd been staring at the flames for the better part of an hour, jaw tight with barely contained fury. The boy's face kept flashing behind her eyes—too young, too broken, the way he'd whispered "mother" when Daenerys held him.

"I'm not—"

"You are." Visenya's knife paused mid-cut. When she looked up, there was steel in her gaze, but also warmth. "You haven't eaten since noon. You'll be useless tomorrow if you don't take care of yourself."

The words hit differently than they might have weeks ago. Not criticism, but care disguised as command. Lyarra felt something tight in her chest ease slightly.

Visenya set down her knife and picked up a piece of the meat she'd been cutting—tender and still warm, seasoned with herbs from their dwindling stores. Instead of placing it on Lyarra's largely untouched plate, she held it out, waiting.

For a moment, Lyarra hesitated. Around them, soldiers ate and talked and tended their gear, close enough that anyone might see. But Visenya's eyes held hers steadily, patient and implacable, and Lyarra found herself leaning forward to take the offered bite.

Visenya's fingers brushed her lips as she pulled back, a fleeting touch that sent heat shooting down Lyarra's spine. The meat was good—rich and smoky—but it was the way Visenya watched her chew that made her pulse quicken.

"Better," Visenya murmured, already cutting another piece.

From across the fire, Daenerys watched with violet eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of the flames. She'd been quieter than usual since they'd made camp, her silver-gold hair still bearing faint traces of ash from the funeral pyre they'd built for the boy. When she spoke, her voice was soft but carrying.

"Open," she said simply, holding out a piece of flatbread drizzled with honey.

The word sent a shiver through Lyarra that had nothing to do with the cooling night air. Daenerys waited, patient as stone, until Lyarra parted her lips. The bread was sweet on her tongue, but it was the way Daenerys's thumb traced along her bottom lip afterward that made her breath catch.

"Good girl," Daenerys whispered, so quietly that only they could hear.

The praise hit like a physical blow, making Lyarra's eyes flutter closed for just a moment. When she opened them, both queens were watching her with identical expressions of hungry satisfaction.

The camp continued around them—soldiers laughing, horses shifting in their lines, the distant call of sentries changing watch. But in their small circle, the air had thickened with something dangerous.

Visenya picked up her wine cup—hammered silver that caught the firelight—and took a slow sip before offering it to Lyarra. The rim was still warm from her lips, and when Lyarra drank, she could taste the wine and something else. Something that was purely Visenya.

"More," Visenya said when Lyarra tried to hand the cup back.

Lyarra obeyed, taking another sip, then another. The wine was good—better than they usually managed on campaign—but it was burning through her faster than it should. Or maybe that was just the way Visenya's eyes stayed locked on her mouth, watching every swallow.

Daenerys had moved closer while Lyarra was drinking, close enough that their knees almost touched. She held out an olive, dark and gleaming with oil, between delicate fingers.

"These are from Lys," she said conversationally, as if they were discussing military logistics instead of the way Lyarra's lips closed around her fingertips. "The merchant claimed they were worth their weight in silver."

The olive burst on Lyarra's tongue, salt and brine and something indefinably luxurious. But it was the way Daenerys's fingers lingered in her mouth that made her moan softly, a sound barely louder than breathing.

"Worth every coin," Visenya agreed, her voice rough around the edges.

They fed her piece by piece—meat cut small and tender, bread torn into perfect bites, fruit that dripped juice down her chin until Daenerys leaned forward to catch it with her thumb. Every bite was deliberate, every touch carefully calculated to wind the tension tighter.

The rage was still there, but it was transforming. The helpless fury at the Masters' cruelty was becoming something else—a desperate need to feel control, to take it and give it and lose herself in the exchange. Every gentle command from Visenya made the fire burn hotter. Every whispered praise from Daenerys made her want to kneel.

Around them, the camp was beginning to settle for the night. Conversations grew quieter, fires burned lower, and the steady rhythm of the watch took over. But in their circle, the night was just beginning.

"Drink," Visenya commanded softly, pressing the wine cup into Lyarra's hands.

But when Lyarra lifted it to her lips, Visenya's hand covered hers, guiding the tilt, controlling the pour. Wine spilled over Lyarra's chin and down her throat, and Daenerys was there immediately, tongue following the trail with kitten-soft licks that made Lyarra's back arch.

"Careful," Daenerys murmured against her neck. "We wouldn't want to waste it."

The double meaning was clear enough to make Lyarra's breath hitch. She was being wasteful with more than wine—wasteful with her attention, her energy, her rage. But they were teaching her better uses for all three.

Visenya took the cup away and set it aside, her movements deliberate and controlled. When she looked back at Lyarra, there was something predatory in her expression.

"You're thinking too much," she observed, reaching out to trace the line of Lyarra's jaw with one finger. "I can see it in your eyes. All that anger, all that planning. Always thinking."

"Someone has to," Lyarra managed, though her voice came out breathier than she'd intended.

"Not tonight." Visenya's finger trailed down to rest against the pulse point in Lyarra's throat. "Tonight, you let us think for you."

The offer was wrapped in silk, but Lyarra could hear the steel underneath. This wasn't just about food or wine or the small intimacies they shared around the fire. This was about control—who held it, who surrendered it, and how that exchange could burn away the helplessness that had been eating at them all for days.

Daenerys moved behind her, settling so that Lyarra was cradled between them both. Her hands came to rest on Lyarra's shoulders, thumbs working small circles into the tense muscles there.

"You carry too much," she whispered against Lyarra's ear. "Let us carry some of it."

The words hit like a physical blow, cutting through defenses Lyarra hadn't even realized she'd raised. She'd been holding herself together through sheer will, forcing herself to eat and sleep and make decisions when all she wanted was to scream at the unfairness of it all. But here, surrounded by warmth and careful hands and voices that promised safety, she could feel those walls crumbling.

Around them, the camp settled into the deeper quiet of night watch. Guards paced their routes, horses shifted in their lines, and somewhere in the distance, one of the dragons rumbled in its sleep. But in their small circle of firelight, time seemed suspended.

Visenya leaned closer, her breath warm against Lyarra's cheek. "Trust us?"

It was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything they'd built together. All the battles fought and won, all the nights spent learning each other's bodies and hearts, all the promises made in darkness and kept in daylight.

Lyarra closed her eyes and let herself fall.

"Yes."

They rose as one from the fire, no words passing between them, but the air itself seemed to thicken with barely restrained energy. The conversations around nearby fires died to whispers as soldiers instinctively turned away, sensing something dangerous in the queens' sudden movement. Even the hardened Unsullied shifted slightly, creating subtle space as the three passed.

Lyarra moved like she was sleepwalking, her eyes still distant but her body responding to the invisible current pulling her forward. Visenya walked with predatory grace, every step deliberate and controlled, violet eyes fixed on some point ahead that only she could see. Daenerys followed with fluid movements, silver-gold hair catching the firelight as she moved past the scattered groups of soldiers.

Behind them, their bonded creatures stirred.

Ghost rose from his position like a pale mountain coming to life, red eyes alert but calm as he padded after Lyarra. His massive paws made no sound on the packed earth, but his presence was impossible to ignore—six feet of dire wolf moving with lethal grace through the camp.

The dragons unfolded themselves with rustling wings and soft rumbles. Nira was first, practically glued to Lyarra's side, her snow-white scales shimmering in the firelight as she matched her bonded's pace with uncanny precision. Drakarion lifted his great head from where he'd been resting, crimson highlights catching the flames as he shadowed Daenerys with protective intensity. Sylveris descended from her perch with regal purpose, snow-white wings folding against her sides as she followed Visenya. Aenryx and Vaelyx brought up the rear, the playful dragon for once serious as they formed a procession that spoke of ancient magic and older bonds.

Soldiers bowed their heads as the queens passed, but their eyes tracked the creatures with obvious awe and wariness. This was power in its rawest form—not just political authority, but something deeper. Something that spoke to the blood and bone of old Valyria.

The command tent loomed ahead, larger than the others and marked with the three-headed dragon banner that snapped in the night breeze. Guards stepped aside without being ordered, their faces carefully neutral as they pulled back the heavy canvas flaps.

The tent interior was spacious enough to hold a war council, furnished with campaign furniture and thick furs spread across the ground. Oil lamps cast warm, flickering light across the canvas walls, creating a space that felt both civilized and primal. Maps lay scattered across a low table, marked with the day's reconnaissance, but none of them looked at the tactical displays.

The moment the flaps fell closed behind them, the careful control shattered.

Visenya moved with explosive force, crossing the space in two strides and slamming Lyarra against the central tent pole with bruising intensity. The thick wooden post shuddered with the impact, and Lyarra gasped as her back connected with the rough surface. But there was no protest in her eyes—only relief, as if the physical shock had finally broken through the numb shell she'd been carrying all day.

"All day," Visenya snarled, her voice raw with barely contained fury, "all fucking day I've watched you suffer, and I couldn't fix it." Her hands gripped Lyarra's shoulders hard enough to leave marks, violet eyes blazing with helpless rage. "I couldn't fix the dead children. I couldn't fix the Masters' cruelty. I couldn't fix any of it."

Lyarra's breath came in short gasps, her grey eyes wide and desperate. "Vis—"

"But this," Visenya continued, her voice dropping to something dangerous and intimate, "this I can fix." Her hands moved to frame Lyarra's face, thumbs pressing against the pulse points in her throat. "This pain, this rage, this helplessness—I can take it from you. I can make it mine instead."

Around the tent's perimeter, their creatures settled into position with the practiced ease of long habit. Ghost positioned himself near the entrance, massive form blocking any possible intrusion. The dragons arranged themselves in a loose circle—Drakarion near Daenerys, Sylveris close to Visenya's right side, little Nira curled against the tent wall where she could watch her bonded with worried violet eyes. They didn't sleep, but they didn't watch with prurient interest either. They were simply there, guardian presences that understood something about their mothers' needs that went beyond human comprehension.

Daenerys moved with liquid grace to the campaign chest where they kept their personal effects. Her fingers found silk rope without looking—lengths of fabric dyed deep purple, soft enough not to chafe but strong enough to hold. She'd had them made weeks ago, after the first time they'd discovered how much Lyarra needed to surrender control.

"You want to save everyone," Daenerys said softly, her voice carrying the musical accent of Old Valyria as she approached with the silk. "Every broken thing, every dying person, every injustice in the world. You carry it all like it's your personal failure."

Lyarra's eyes tracked to the rope, and something in her expression shifted—fear and need warring in equal measure. "I have to. Someone has to care—"

"Tonight you belong to us," Daenerys interrupted, her tone gentle but implacable. "Tonight you don't have to carry the world." She held up the silk, letting it slide through her fingers like water. "Tonight we do the thinking. We do the caring. We do the hurting."

The words hit Lyarra like a physical blow, her knees nearly buckling against the tent pole. This was what she needed—what they all needed. The permission to stop being queens, stop being leaders, stop being the ones who had to hold everything together. In here, in this tent surrounded by creatures who loved them unconditionally, they could be broken.

Visenya's hands were already working at the ties of Lyarra's traveling leathers, pulling the fabric away from heated skin with something between reverence and violence. "We're monsters," she whispered against Lyarra's throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "All of us. We burn cities and break chains and leave corpses in our wake."

"Good," Daenerys agreed, moving behind Lyarra to catch her wrists. The silk rope wound around pale skin with practiced ease, creating beautiful patterns that were both art and restraint. "Monsters survive. Monsters protect what matters."

Lyarra's breath hitched as the bonds tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that she was no longer in control. "We're supposed to be better," she gasped, even as her body arched into Visenya's touch. "We're supposed to be just—"

"Justice is a luxury," Visenya snarled, her mouth finding the hollow of Lyarra's throat and biting hard enough to leave marks. "Mercy is weakness. The only thing that matters is power and how we use it."

But even as she spoke the harsh words, her hands were gentle as they mapped familiar territory—the curve of Lyarra's ribs, the flutter of her pulse, the soft places that made her gasp and arch. This wasn't about cruelty. This was about control in a world where they had so little of it.

Daenerys finished with the ropes and stepped back to admire her work. Lyarra's wrists were bound behind her back in an intricate pattern that would tighten if she struggled but wouldn't cut off circulation. Purple silk against pale skin, beautiful and functional and utterly possessive.

"Perfect," she murmured, violet eyes dark with satisfaction. "Our perfect little wolf, all trussed up and helpless."

The words sent heat spiraling through Lyarra's body, chasing away the numb cold that had been living in her chest since they'd found the boy. This was what she needed—to be claimed, controlled, possessed. To have the crushing weight of responsibility lifted from her shoulders, even if only for a few hours.

Visenya's hands found the lacings of Lyarra's remaining clothes, pulling them away with efficient movements that spoke of long practice. Skin was revealed inch by inch—pale and marked with old scars from battles fought and won. A particularly vicious line across her ribs from Harrenhal, smaller nicks from training accidents, the deliberate marks they'd left on previous nights like this.

"Look at you," Visenya breathed, stepping back to take in the sight. "Look at our fierce little queen, all bound up and breathing hard. Do you know how beautiful you are like this?"

Lyarra's cheeks flushed, but she couldn't hide the way her body responded to the praise. Being seen, being wanted, being claimed—it filled some hollow place inside her that she hadn't even realized was empty.

Daenerys moved to light more oil lamps, filling the tent with warm, flickering light that turned their skin to gold and shadow. When she returned, her own traveling clothes had been discarded in favor of a silk shift that left little to the imagination. Visenya was already half-undressed, her tunic hanging open to reveal the lean muscle beneath.

"We're going to take care of you," Daenerys said, settling onto the furs spread across the tent floor. Her voice was soft but carried absolute authority. "We're going to hurt you and hold you and make you forget everything except this moment."

"And you're going to let us," Visenya added, guiding Lyarra away from the tent pole and down to the furs between them. "No protests, no trying to be strong, no worrying about anyone else. Just us."

Lyarra knelt between them, wrists still bound, body trembling with need and anticipation. Around them, the dragons rustled softly—not watching, but aware. Protective presences that understood their mothers needed this outlet for the rage and helplessness that would otherwise consume them.

"We're broken," Lyarra whispered, the words torn from somewhere deep in her chest. "All of us. The things we've done, the things we've seen—we're not the heroes in the songs anymore."

"Then let us break together," Daenerys replied, reaching out to trace the line of Lyarra's jaw with gentle fingers. "Let us be broken and beautiful and ours."

Visenya's hands found the silk ropes, testing the bonds with professional efficiency. Satisfied that they would hold, she leaned in to claim Lyarra's mouth in a kiss that tasted of wine and desperation and barely contained violence. When she pulled back, both of them were breathing hard.

"You want to save the world," Visenya murmured against Lyarra's lips. "But you can't even save yourself."

"Then save me," Lyarra gasped, the words barely audible. "Please. I can't—I can't keep carrying this."

It was surrender in its purest form—not just physical, but emotional. The admission that she was drowning, that the weight of leadership and responsibility and constant grief was pulling her under. That she needed them to be strong so she could be weak.

Daenerys moved closer, silk shift whispering against skin as she positioned herself at Lyarra's side. Her hands found the ropes binding Lyarra's wrists, not to untie them but to use them as leverage, as control.

"We have you," she whispered, pulling gently on the silk until Lyarra arched back against her. "We're not going anywhere. We're not leaving you to carry this alone."

Around them, the tent became a world unto itself. Outside, thirty thousand soldiers slept or stood watch, dragons roosted, and the machinery of war continued its relentless forward motion. But here, in this space between canvas walls and protected by creatures who understood the bonds that tied their mothers together, three broken queens could stop pretending to be anything other than what they were.

The rage was still there—the helpless fury at injustice, at their own limitations, at a world that demanded they be symbols instead of people. But here, bound in silk and surrounded by warmth, it was transforming into something else. Something that burned just as hot but could be channeled, controlled, shared.

Visenya's hands mapped familiar territory with possessive intensity, relearning the geography of Lyarra's body while Daenerys whispered praise and endearments in High Valyrian. The silk ropes created beautiful patterns against pale skin, art and bondage and promise all wrapped together.

This was their sanctuary—twisted and beautiful and necessary. A place where monsters could love each other, where queens could surrender, where the weight of the world could be set aside in favor of simpler, more primal needs.

Outside, Meereen waited. The slaves in their chains, the Masters in their pyramids, the endless cycle of violence and liberation that defined their war. Tomorrow they would put their armor back on and be the Dragon Queens again, symbols of justice and fire and change.

But tonight, they could just be broken. And in that brokenness, they could find something like healing.

The silk ropes caught the lamplight as Daenerys adjusted Lyarra's position, pulling her arms higher behind her back until she had to arch her spine to accommodate the angle. The purple fabric created intricate patterns across pale skin—functional art that spoke of practiced hands and careful planning.

"There," Daenerys murmured, satisfaction clear in her voice as she tested the bonds one final time. "Perfect tension. Tight enough to remind you who's in control, but not so tight that you can't feel everything else we're going to do to you."

Lyarra's breathing had already changed, becoming deeper and more rhythmic as her body responded to the familiar ritual. The ropes weren't just restraint—they were transformation, a physical manifestation of the psychological surrender she craved. Bound like this, she couldn't reach for weapons, couldn't protect others, couldn't be anything but present in her own skin.

Visenya circled her like a predator studying prey, violet eyes cataloguing every tremor, every flush of heat that colored Lyarra's skin. When she finally moved, it was with deliberate slowness, her hand trailing from the curve of Lyarra's shoulder down to the sensitive hollow of her throat.

"You're already shaking," Visenya observed, her voice carrying dark amusement. "We haven't even started, and you're already falling apart for us."

"Please," Lyarra whispered, the word barely audible but heavy with need.

"Please what?" Visenya's fingers found the pulse point in Lyarra's neck, pressing just hard enough to feel the rapid flutter beneath her skin. "Use your words, little wolf. Tell us what you need."

The demand hung in the air between them, heavy with expectation. Around the tent's perimeter, their dragons shifted slightly—not uncomfortable, but aware of the emotional intensity building in their bonded ones. This was familiar territory for them, these moments when their mothers needed to break apart completely in order to rebuild themselves.

"I need—" Lyarra's voice caught, the words sticking in her throat. Even now, even bound and helpless, the habit of self-reliance died hard.

Daenerys moved behind her, warm breath ghosting across the shell of her ear. "You need us to take control," she supplied softly. "You need us to hurt you just enough to drown out everything else. You need to stop thinking and start feeling."

The accuracy of the words hit like a physical blow, making Lyarra's knees buckle slightly. Only the support of Daenerys's body against her back kept her upright, silk shift whisper-soft against overheated skin.

"Yes," she gasped, the admission torn from somewhere deep in her chest. "Please, I can't—I can't keep carrying it all."

Visenya's hand moved from her throat to her hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands and pulling just hard enough to make her gasp. "Then don't. Tonight, the only thing you carry is what we give you."

She pulled Lyarra's head back, exposing the long line of her throat, and leaned in to set her teeth against the pale skin. Not quite hard enough to break the surface, but with enough pressure to leave marks that would last for days. Each bite was deliberate, possessive, marking territory that belonged to them alone.

Lyarra's response was immediate and visceral—back arching, breath coming in short gasps, small sounds of need escaping her lips despite her attempts to stay quiet. The pain was clean and sharp, cutting through the fog of grief and rage that had been clouding her thoughts for days.

"That's it," Daenerys encouraged, her hands sliding around to map the curves of Lyarra's breasts through the thin fabric of her shift. "Let it out. Let us hear how much you need this."

Her touch was lighter than Visenya's, all silk and suggestion, fingers that traced patterns across sensitive skin without quite providing the pressure Lyarra craved. It was calculated torture, designed to build need until it became unbearable.

Visenya released her grip on Lyarra's hair and stepped back, studying her handiwork with critical eyes. Red marks bloomed across pale skin, already darkening to purple bruises that would serve as reminders long after the immediate sensation faded.

"Not enough," she decided, reaching for the leather belt she'd discarded with her clothes. The supple material whispered through her fingers as she doubled it over, testing the weight and flex. "You're still thinking. I can see it in your eyes."

The belt cracked through the air with a sharp sound that made all three of them shiver with anticipation. Lyarra's eyes widened, but there was no fear there—only desperate hunger for the release that pain could bring.

"Count," Visenya commanded, positioning herself to Lyarra's side where she had a clear angle. "And if you lose track, we start over."

The first strike landed across Lyarra's thighs, leather meeting skin with a crack that seemed to echo in the confined space. The pain was bright and immediate, chasing away the last vestiges of numbness that had been protecting her from the day's horrors.

"One," she gasped, the word coming out more like a sob.

Daenerys's hands never stopped their gentle exploration, creating a counterpoint of pleasure that made each impact more intense by contrast. She whispered praise in High Valyrian, musical words that washed over Lyarra like a benediction.

The second strike came higher, across the curve of her hip. "Two!"

By the fifth strike, Lyarra was crying—not from pain, but from relief. Each impact drove away another layer of the crushing responsibility she carried, replacing it with something immediate and physical and real. This was pain she had chosen, sensation she could control by surrendering control entirely.

"Beautiful," Visenya breathed, setting the belt aside to run her hands over the raised welts she'd created. "Look how you bloom for us. Look how perfect you are when you let go."

Her touch was gentle now, fingertips tracing the patterns of red across pale skin with something approaching reverence. This wasn't about cruelty—it was about transformation, about taking the destructive energy of rage and grief and channeling it into something that could heal rather than destroy.

Daenerys shifted position, moving to kneel in front of Lyarra where she could see her face clearly. Tears tracked down flushed cheeks, but her eyes were clearer than they'd been in days—present and focused and alive.

"There you are," Daenerys murmured, reaching up to cup Lyarra's face in gentle hands. "There's our girl. No more walls, no more pretending to be stronger than stone. Just you."

The kiss that followed was soft at first, a reward for surrender, but it quickly deepened into something desperate and hungry. Lyarra could taste wine and honey on Daenerys's lips, could feel the slight tremor in her hands that spoke of her own barely contained need.

When they broke apart, both were breathing hard. Daenerys's violet eyes were dark with arousal, pupils dilated in the lamplight.

"My turn," she said softly, but there was steel underneath the silk of her voice.

She rose with fluid grace and moved to the campaign chest again, this time returning with items that made Lyarra's breath catch. Silk scarves in royal purple, a small vial of oil that caught the light like liquid gold, and something else—thin leather cords that would leave very different marks than Visenya's belt.

"Visenya breaks you apart," Daenerys explained, setting her tools within easy reach. "But I put you back together. I make you remember that pleasure and pain are just different faces of the same coin."

The scarves went around Lyarra's eyes first, blocking out the visual world and forcing her to rely on touch and sound and scent. The silk was cool against heated skin, soft enough not to chafe but effective at cutting off one of her primary senses.

"No watching," Daenerys whispered against her ear. "No thinking about what comes next. Just feeling whatever we choose to give you."

The blindfold changed everything. Without sight, every other sensation became magnified—the whisper of silk against skin, the subtle sounds of movement around her, the way the air currents shifted when someone moved close. She was adrift in darkness, anchored only by the bonds that held her and the warm presence of the women who owned her.

Visenya's hands found her first, mapping familiar territory with renewed intensity. Without the distraction of sight, every touch felt electric—fingers tracing the curves of her ribs, palms smoothing over the welts left by the belt, nails dragging light scratches across sensitive skin.

"You're ours," Visenya murmured, her voice coming from somewhere close but impossible to pinpoint exactly. "Every mark, every tremor, every sound you make—all ours. Say it."

"I'm yours," Lyarra gasped, the words torn from her throat without conscious thought. "Yours to hurt, yours to heal, yours to break and put back together."

The admission sent heat spiraling through her body, pooling low in her belly and making her arch against the ropes that held her. She could feel herself getting wet, arousal building despite—or perhaps because of—the pain and helplessness.

Daenerys's touch was different when it came—cooler, more deliberate, fingers slick with oil that smelled of exotic spices and distant lands. She worked with clinical precision, building sensation layer by layer until Lyarra was shaking with need.

"Please," Lyarra begged, the word coming out broken and desperate. "Please, I need—"

"We know what you need," Daenerys assured her, but her touch remained maddeningly light. "The question is whether you've earned it. Have you been good for us? Have you surrendered completely?"

The questions hung in the air like a test, and Lyarra felt herself fracturing under the weight of need and submission. This was what she craved—not just the physical sensation, but the psychological release of being owned, controlled, possessed entirely.

"Yes," she sobbed, beyond pride or shame. "Yes, I'm yours, please, I'll do anything—"

The reward came swift and overwhelming—Daenerys's mouth replacing her fingers, skilled tongue working with devastating precision while Visenya's hands held her steady. The combination of pleasure and restraint, of being utterly at their mercy while they lavished attention on her body, was almost too much to bear.

Around them, the dragons rumbled softly—not distressed, but responding to the emotional intensity radiating from their bonded ones. They understood that this was necessary, this breaking apart and rebuilding that their mothers needed in order to function.

The climax, when it came, was shattering—wave after wave of sensation that wiped away everything else, leaving only the immediate reality of pleasure and possession and complete surrender. Lyarra cried out, the sound muffled against Visenya's shoulder as her body convulsed against the silk bonds.

In that moment of release, all the rage and grief and helplessness burned away, leaving only the three of them tangled together in lamplight and shadow, broken and beautiful and temporarily whole.

As Lyarra's trembling subsided, her body going limp against the silk restraints, Daenerys lifted her head from between pale thighs with lips glistening and violet eyes bright with satisfaction. But instead of basking in her obvious success, her gaze immediately sought Visenya's face with an expression that was achingly young and desperate for approval.

"Did I do well, sister?" The words came out breathless, tinged with the kind of uncertainty that would seem absurd to anyone who'd just witnessed her expert technique. "Was I good for her?"

Visenya's answering smile was warm but carried undertones of possession that went far deeper than sexual satisfaction. "Perfect, little dragon. Look how beautiful you made her." Her hand moved to cup Daenerys's face, thumb brushing across swollen lips with something between reverence and ownership. "Such clever fingers, such a wicked tongue. I'm so proud of you."

The praise hit Daenerys like a physical caress, her entire body seeming to relax as validation washed through her. She leaned into Visenya's touch with unconscious need, seeking the kind of comfort that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with much older, deeper patterns.

But there was pride there too, mixed with the desperate need for approval. A bratty satisfaction that couldn't quite be suppressed. "She came harder for me than she did for you," Daenerys said, the words carrying both triumph and challenge. "Did you see how she cried out? How she begged?"

Rather than take offense, Visenya laughed—low and rich and full of indulgent affection. "My competitive little sister. Always keeping score, even in bed." Her hand moved to tangle in silver-gold hair, grip firm enough to make Daenerys gasp. "But you're forgetting something, darling. I'm the one who made her desperate enough to beg for your touch in the first place."

The reminder of hierarchy sent heat spiraling through Daenerys's body even as it reinforced the psychological patterns that had shaped them since childhood. Visenya always had the last word, always maintained control, always made sure Daenerys knew her place in their complicated dynamic.

They turned their attention to Lyarra, working together to free her from the silk bonds with practiced efficiency. Visenya supported her weight while Daenerys unwound the intricate knots, both of them checking for circulation and chafing with the kind of care that spoke of long experience. Even in their own arousal, the protective instincts came first.

"There's our brave little wolf," Visenya murmured as they settled Lyarra against the soft furs, her grey eyes unfocused and peaceful. "So beautiful when you let go completely. Rest now—we'll take care of everything else."

The maternal tone was automatic, unconscious, the same voice Visenya had used to comfort a young Daenerys after nightmares or injuries. That she used it now, during intimacy, spoke to something so deeply ingrained they couldn't be separated from arousal itself.

With Lyarra settled and content, the focus shifted entirely between the twins. The air seemed to thicken with different energy—older, more complex, tangled with years of codependence and carefully structured power dynamics that outsiders would never understand.

Daenerys remained kneeling where she'd been servicing Lyarra, but now her attention was entirely on Visenya. Violet eyes tracked every movement as her sister rose with predatory grace, skin golden in the lamplight, body lean and strong and utterly confident. The hunger in her expression was obvious, but so was the uncertainty that never quite went away.

"Come here, little dragon," Visenya commanded softly, settling back against the furs with regal composure. The endearment was deliberate—not just sister, not just lover, but something that acknowledged both their blood relationship and the maternal dynamic that had shaped them.

Daenerys moved immediately, crawling across the space between them with fluid grace. But as she drew closer, something shifted in her expression—the adult confidence wavering, revealing the much younger woman underneath who still needed Visenya's approval for everything.

"Vis," she whispered, the childhood nickname slipping out as it always did when vulnerability overwhelmed her careful adult composure. "I need... May I touch you? Please?"

"Of course you may," Visenya replied, but her voice carried that gentle authority that reinforced rather than challenged the dynamic. "You know how much I love your touch, darling. How much I've been waiting for you to ask so sweetly."

The praise sent visible relief through Daenerys's body, but also heat that had nothing to do with simple arousal. Being called good, being approved of, being wanted—it filled psychological needs that were far more complex than sexual desire.

She positioned herself between Visenya's thighs with reverent care, hands mapping familiar territory with renewed wonder. This was her sister, her protector, her first love, her moral compass—all wrapped up in one person who had shaped every aspect of her emotional development. The weight of that knowledge made every touch feel sacred and profane in equal measure.

"You're so beautiful, sister," Daenerys breathed against heated skin, using the formal title even as her actions became increasingly intimate. "So perfect. I could worship you forever."

The words sent tremors through Visenya's body, but also sparked something deeper—satisfaction at being needed, at being the center of Daenerys's universe in ways that went far beyond healthy sibling affection. She tangled her fingers in silver-gold hair, guiding rather than forcing, maintaining control even as pleasure began to build.

"That's my good girl," she murmured, the maternal praise during sexual instruction creating a psychological cocktail that kept Daenerys desperate for more. "Such a clever tongue, such perfect instincts. You know exactly what your sister needs, don't you?"

The mixing of familial and sexual language should have been disturbing, but for them it was simply natural—the inevitable result of patterns established so early they couldn't imagine functioning any other way. Daenerys responded to the praise with increased enthusiasm, seeking not just Visenya's physical pleasure but the emotional validation that came with being told she was good, useful, necessary.

"Look at me," Visenya commanded breathlessly, using her grip on Daenerys's hair to lift her head slightly. "I want to see your eyes while you pleasure me. Want to see how much you love making your sister feel good."

The eye contact was intense, almost overwhelming—violet meeting violet, twin souls that had been shaped by trauma and codependence into something that was beautiful and destructive in equal measure. Daenerys could see her own desperate need for approval reflected in Visenya's gaze, could see the maternal protectiveness that never fully switched off even during arousal.

"I do love it," Daenerys gasped between movements, the words tumbling out with brutal honesty. "I love being good for you, love making you happy. I need to be special to you, Vis. I need to be your favorite."

The admission hung in the air between them—too honest, too revealing of the knots that bound them together. But instead of being disturbed by the intensity, Visenya felt only satisfaction. This was what she'd created, what she'd needed to create—absolute devotion, complete dependence, love so intense it bordered on obsession.

"You are," she assured breathlessly, pulling Daenerys up for a kiss that tasted of arousal and promises and years of shared secrets. "You'll always be my little dragon, my most precious girl. No one could ever replace you."

The reassurance sent Daenerys spiraling into desperate intensity, her ministrations becoming almost frantic in their need to prove worth, to demonstrate irreplaceable value. She used every technique she'd learned, every secret knowledge of Visenya's body gained through years of intimacy, pouring all her need into physical expression.

When Visenya's climax finally came, it was with Daenerys's name on her lips. The sound sent echoes through the tent, causing their dragons to rumble softly in response to their bonded ones' emotional intensity.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Visenya immediately pulled Daenerys up into her arms, positioning her against her chest in a configuration that was more mother and child than lovers. Her hands moved automatically to stroke silver-gold hair, to check for any signs of distress or need.

"There's my perfect girl," she murmured, the aftercare as psychologically loaded as the sex had been. "So good for me, so beautiful. I love you so much, darling."

She relaxed against Visenya's chest, seeking the kind of comfort that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with much deeper needs. Around them, Lyarra stirred slightly, still boneless from her earlier release but unconsciously seeking the warmth of their shared space.

Without conscious thought, they arranged themselves in their familiar configuration—Visenya in the middle, literally and figuratively shielding both lovers, Daenerys curled against her side like a child seeking comfort, Lyarra pressed against her other side in trust so complete it was almost frightening.

This was their sanctuary, their beautiful dysfunction made flesh. Tomorrow they would wake and be queens again, would lead armies and make decisions that affected thousands of lives. But tonight, they could simply be broken things that had found a way to fit together, sharp edges carefully arranged so they cut others instead of themselves.

The dragons settled into deeper rest around them, understanding that their mothers had found whatever twisted peace they needed. And in the lamplight and shadow, three damaged souls held each other close and pretended that love could heal everything, even when it was love itself that had done the damage.

 

Chapter 17: XVII

Summary:

The siege of Meereen begins!

"The dragons came to Astapor, where slaves built pyramids with their blood and tears. Those slaves are free now, and they march with us. The dragons came to Yunkai, where children were stolen from their mothers to be shaped into pleasure slaves. Those children are free now, and they stand beside us  as soldiers and citizens and human beings!"

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XVII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The first rays of dawn filtered through the silk walls of their pavilion, casting everything in warm golden hues that made pale skin seem to glow and silver-gold hair shimmer like spun starlight. Consciousness returned slowly, gently, the way it only could when surrounded by absolute safety and unconditional love.

Lyarra woke first, as she often did—a northern habit that even months in warmer climates hadn't entirely erased. But instead of the urgent alertness that had marked her mornings for years, she drifted into awareness with luxurious slowness, savoring the delicious ache between her thighs that spoke of last night's intensity. The leather belt had left her tender in the most wonderful way, every small movement sending pleasant reminders through her body.

She was thoroughly trapped in their customary sleeping arrangement, but it was the kind of captivity that felt like paradise. Visenya lay on her right side, one arm possessively curved around Lyarra's waist, her face buried in silver-streaked hair with the complete relaxation that only came in absolute trust. To her left, Daenerys was curled into her shoulder like a cat seeking warmth, violet eyes still closed, her breathing deep and even.

But their human warmth was only part of the cocoon surrounding them. Nira was draped across Lyarra's legs, the northern dragon's cooler temperature providing perfect contrast to the heat radiating from her sisters. Her scales were pale as fresh snow, shimmering like moonlight over frost in the dawn light, and her breathing created small puffs of mist in the relatively warm air. Her violet eyes—so like Lyarra's own—opened first, immediately focusing on her mother with the devotion of a creature who had found her perfect person.

Sylveris had claimed the space along Visenya's back, her snow-white scales with their distinctive black spotting creating a striking pattern that caught the golden morning light. Her amber eyes held ancient intelligence as they opened—Hedwig's memories flickering behind draconic features—and she began the gentle rumbling purr that indicated complete contentment.

Drakarion sprawled magnificently across all three of them, his jet-black scales gleaming like polished obsidian while crimson highlights along his wings and spines caught the light like drops of blood. His bulk served as both blanket and shield, one wing draped over Daenerys while his head rested protectively near Visenya's shoulder, his internal heat the strongest of the fire-breathers.

Ghost completed their nest, pressed against Lyarra's back with Aenryx and Vaelyx curled between his legs like puppies seeking pack warmth. Aenryx's creamy ivory scales were tinged with gold, her graceful long wings folded delicately around her twin. Vaelyx's green scales created a beautiful contrast, his bronze wings and markings gleaming softly in the morning light. The dire wolf's fur provided insulation against the dragons' varying temperatures, his steady breathing a counterpoint to the soft rumbles emanating from sleeping dragons.

Lyarra smiled, carefully extracting one hand to stroke Nira's snout. The young dragon's eyes opened immediately—brilliant violet like winter stars—and she lifted her head with the eager attention of a puppy recognizing that her mother was awake.

The movement created a chain reaction. Drakarion's massive head swiveled toward them, amber eyes blinking slowly in recognition before he began the rumbling purr that indicated contentment. Sylveris stirred, golden amber eyes opening to assess the situation with the sharp intelligence that marked her as something more than just dragon. Her gaze found Lyarra's first—a moment of connection that acknowledged their shared role as Visenya's anchors—before she began the careful process of untangling herself without disturbing her sleeping rider.

Ghost's ears perked, his red eyes opening to study the stirring dragons with the patient tolerance of a pack leader managing overgrown puppies. Aenryx and Vaelyx remained stubbornly asleep, their contrasting ivory-gold and green-bronze forms curled so tightly together it was impossible to tell where one twin ended and the other began.

The shifting of their living blankets gradually roused the queens. Daenerys made a soft sound of protest as Drakarion's movement disturbed her comfortable position, her arm tightening around Lyarra's waist as if she could prevent the inevitable wake-up call through sheer determination.

"Morning already?" she mumbled against Lyarra's shoulder, her voice thick with sleep and carrying the faint lisp that marked her most unguarded moments. "Feels like we just fell asleep."

Visenya was more alert, her warrior's instincts never completely dormant even in their safest moments. She lifted her head, violet eyes immediately scanning their surroundings before relaxing as she registered the peaceful morning light and the contented rumbles of their dragons.

"The sun's barely up," she observed, her voice carrying that automatic authority that marked even her most casual statements. But there was warmth there too, affection softening the edges as she pressed a kiss to the nape of Lyarra's neck. "We don't need to rise yet."

But Nira had other ideas. The young dragon had apparently decided that morning meant attention time, and she began the process of carefully extracting herself from the tangle of limbs and scales. Her frost-pale scales caught the light like captured starlight, and her movements were precise, delicate—clearly practiced at this morning ritual—but insistent in the way of all creatures who had decided their needs were paramount.

She padded across to Lyarra's face, her cooler temperature a shock against sleep-warmed skin, and began the gentle but persistent nuzzling that indicated she required immediate affection and acknowledgment of her obviously superior importance.

"Someone's demanding," Lyarra laughed, raising both hands to scratch behind the small dragon's ear ridges. Nira's purr intensified, and she settled herself more firmly across Lyarra's chest, making it clear that morning cuddles were now the priority.

The attention being lavished on Nira sparked immediate jealousy in Drakarion, who decided that if his smallest sister was receiving pets, he obviously deserved the same consideration. He began carefully repositioning himself, his obsidian scales rippling with crimson highlights as he moved, until he could rest his great head next to Lyarra's hip and fix her with amber eyes that somehow managed to convey wounded dignity at being temporarily ignored.

"Oh, you poor neglected creature," Daenerys teased, finally accepting that sleep was over. She stretched languidly, unconsciously displaying the lean lines of her body in the golden morning light, before turning her attention to her demanding dragon. "Is the terrible Nira stealing all the attention from the mighty Drakarion?"

Her hands found the sensitive spot just behind his jaw, and Drakarion's eyes half-closed in bliss. His rumbling purr deepened, vibrating through the furs beneath them and creating a sensation that was both soothing and mildly arousing.

Sylveris, not to be outdone by her siblings, had begun the process of claiming Visenya's attention through the time-tested method of draping herself across her rider's torso and fixing her with amber eyes that managed to convey both imperial dignity and pitiful abandonment. Her snow-white scales with their black spotting created striking patterns across Visenya's pale skin.

"Sylveris," Visenya murmured. "Good morning, beautiful girl."

The familiar endearment sent visible pleasure through the white-and-black dragon. Sylveris settled more firmly against Visenya's chest, her purr harmonizing with Drakarion's in a sound that seemed to resonate in their very bones.

Ghost, apparently deciding that if everyone else was demanding attention he might as well join in, padded over to nose at Lyarra's free hand. His approach was more dignified than the dragons'—pack leaders didn't beg for attention—but his meaning was clear enough.

"And good morning to you too, handsome," Lyarra said, scratching behind his ears in the way that always made his tail twitch with pleasure. "Such a good boy, keeping watch over all these demanding dragons."

Aenryx and Vaelyx finally stirred, apparently deciding that the amount of attention being distributed required their immediate participation. They uncoiled from each other with the reluctance of creatures who had found the perfect sleeping position—Aenryx's ivory-gold scales gleaming softly while Vaelyx's green-bronze coloring caught the morning light like precious metals—then padded over to claim their share of morning affection.

The result was a tangle of naked queens and demanding magical creatures, all competing for prime position in what had become their daily ritual of morning worship. Not worship of any gods or dragons or queens, but of the simple fact that they had found each other, had somehow created this impossible family from trauma and need and desperate love.

Lyarra found herself laughing as Nira jealously nudged Ghost away from her hand, while Aenryx attempted to claim the space between her and Daenerys that was already occupied by Vaelyx. The dragons' size-shifting ability meant they could all fit, but the competition for optimal positioning created a constantly shifting landscape of scales and fur and warm bodies—frost-white meeting obsidian-crimson, ivory-gold tangling with green-bronze, snow-and-black spots gleaming in the growing light.

"We need to actually get up eventually," Visenya said, but her tone held no urgency. Her hands continued their automatic ministrations to Sylveris, who had positioned herself to claim both chest and stomach space with the territorial determination of a cat.

"Do we though?" Daenerys asked, settling more firmly into her position curled against Lyarra's side. "I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be than right here."

It was true. For all their royal obligations and the weight of their growing power, these morning moments felt like the most important part of their day. Here, surrounded by their creatures and each other, they weren't queens or conquerors or political symbols. They were simply three young women who had found something precious in each other, something worth protecting with everything they had.

The pleasant ache between Lyarra's thighs served as a constant reminder of last night's intensity, but it was the good kind of soreness—proof of pleasure given and received, of trust offered and accepted. She shifted slightly, testing the sensation, and caught Visenya's knowing smile.

"Feeling last night, are we?" Visenya asked, her voice carrying that particular note of satisfaction that meant she was pleased with her work.

"Mmm," Lyarra agreed, not bothering to hide her contentment. "In the best possible way."

Daenerys lifted her head, violet eyes bright with curiosity and something warmer. "The belt was perfect for you," she said, her observation carrying both genuine care and the faint edge of competitiveness that never quite left her voice. "You looked so beautiful, stretched and desperate and trusting."

The memory sent heat spiraling through Lyarra's body, but it was comfortable heat, the kind that promised future pleasure rather than demanding immediate attention. She caught Daenerys's hand, bringing it to her lips for a gentle kiss.

"Both of you made it perfect," she said simply, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. "I've never felt so... held. So completely yours."

The eventual necessity of leaving their nest of warmth and scales finally won out over comfort, though not without considerable protest from both dragons and queens alike. Nira made her displeasure known by draping herself more firmly across Lyarra's legs, violet eyes conveying the deep betrayal she felt at this abandonment of proper morning cuddle time.

"Yes, darling, I know," Lyarra murmured, gently coaxing the frost-pale dragon to release her limbs. "But we need to reach Meereen, and that requires actually getting dressed and moving."

Sylveris was equally reluctant to abandon her position across Visenya's torso, her amber eyes holding Hedwig's familiar stubbornness. It took gentle coaxing and promises of attention during the day's ride before she finally allowed her rider to sit up, though she immediately repositioned herself to maintain maximum contact.

"Spoiled creatures, all of them," Visenya said fondly, running her fingers along the distinctive black spots that marked Sylveris's snow-white scales. "We've created monsters of comfort and affection."

"The best kind of monsters," Daenerys added, finally extricating herself from Drakarion's protective wing. The great black dragon rumbled his disapproval, crimson highlights along his spines flashing in the morning light as he expressed his opinion of this unnecessary departure from the perfect sleeping arrangement.

Rising from their nest required careful negotiation around demanding creatures who seemed determined to remain as close as possible to their mothers. Ghost padded alongside Lyarra as she made her way to the washing station, his massive form a comforting presence that spoke of pack bonds deeper than mere companionship. Aenryx and Vaelyx followed in their characteristic tandem, the ivory-gold and green-bronze dragons moving with the synchronized grace that marked their twin bond.

The washing area had been prepared the night before by their retainers—copper bowls filled with clean water, soft cloths, and bottles of scented oils that would help protect their skin from the harsh Essosi sun. But what should have been a simple morning ablution became something more intimate, more connected, as hands found ways to help and touch and claim.

Visenya reached for Lyarra first, her fingers trailing along pale shoulders as she lifted silver-streaked hair to expose the nape of her neck. "Let me," she murmured, the request carrying undertones of possession that sent warmth spiraling through Lyarra's belly.

The cloth was cool against sleep-warmed skin, but Visenya's hands were warm, sure, tracing paths that had nothing to do with mere cleanliness and everything to do with reaffirming ownership. She worked with the thorough attention she brought to everything—behind ears, along collarbones, down the length of spine with touches that bordered on caresses.

Daenerys claimed Lyarra's front, violet eyes holding that particular intensity that meant she was cataloguing every reaction, every small intake of breath. Her hands moved with different energy than Visenya's—more exploratory, more openly sensual as she traced the curves of breasts and the soft skin of belly.

"You're beautiful in the morning light," she said softly, her thumb brushing across a nipple that tightened immediately under the attention. "All golden and soft and marked by us."

The marks she referenced were subtle—faint impressions from leather straps, the ghost of teeth marks along the curve of shoulder, the tender flush that spoke of last night's intensity. They were proof of belonging, of pleasure given and received, and Lyarra found herself arching slightly into the touch that catalogued each one.

Nira had positioned herself between Lyarra's legs, her frost-pale scales cool against sensitive inner thighs as she claimed the prime real estate closest to her mother. The sensation was oddly erotic—not deliberately sexual but intimately possessive in a way that sent small shivers of awareness through already sensitized nerves.

"Demanding little thing," Lyarra laughed, though she made no move to discourage the contact. "Are you planning to supervise the entire washing process?"

The violet-eyed dragon's purr suggested that yes, supervision was absolutely necessary. Her cool scales created delicious contrast against heated skin, and when Daenerys's washing cloth moved lower, Nira shifted to accommodate the attention while maintaining her claimed position.

Sylveris had taken similar liberties with Visenya, draping herself along her rider's back while snow-white scales with black spotting pressed against skin that flushed pink under the morning's ministrations. Her amber eyes held ancient knowledge as she watched Daenerys and Lyarra with the satisfaction of a creature who understood exactly what was happening and approved entirely.

"Your turn," Lyarra said, reaching for fresh cloths and turning toward her lovers with the same possessive intent they'd shown her. "Can't have my queens going unwashed."

She claimed Visenya first, partly because Sylveris was draped across her back making it a shared endeavor, but mostly because the fierce dragon queen looked vulnerable in the morning light, her defenses lowered in ways that only happened in their most private moments.

Lyarra's hands traced the strong lines of shoulders and arms that spoke of years wielding sword and command, but her touch gentled at the places where tension still lived—the tight muscles at the base of neck, the careful way Visenya held her left shoulder from an old training injury. Each touch was both caress and claim, acknowledgment and possession.

"My fierce warrior," she murmured against Visenya's ear, teeth grazing sensitive skin in a way that made the other woman shiver. "My beautiful, deadly queen."

Daenerys pressed against Visenya's front, creating a sandwich of affection and attention that left the oldest queen trapped between claiming hands and demanding creatures. Drakarion had positioned his great head near their group, amber eyes watching with the satisfied attention of a creature whose pack was behaving exactly as it should.

"Our queen," Daenerys corrected, her own hands joining Lyarra's in the thorough mapping of Visenya's body. "Ours to touch and claim and worship."

The possessive language sent visible heat through Visenya's carefully controlled exterior. Her hands found Daenerys's hair, fingers tangling in silver-gold strands with the automatic claiming gesture that marked all their interactions.

"Yours," she agreed, the admission carrying weight beyond simple acknowledgment. "Always yours."

The washing became an exercise in mutual claiming, hands and mouths finding excuses to touch and taste and mark. When they turned their attention to Daenerys, she melted under the combined focus with the grace of someone who had learned to accept worship as her due while still finding wonder in being genuinely desired.

Vaelyx had claimed position along her legs, green scales with bronze markings warm against skin that already carried the flush of arousal. His twin Aenryx draped herself across Daenerys's arms, ivory-gold scales gleaming as graceful wings provided living jewelry that shifted with every breath and movement.

"Perfect little dragon queen," Lyarra murmured, her hands tracing the delicate lines of ribs and the soft curve of hips while Visenya's attention focused on the sensitive places that always made Daenerys arch and gasp.

"Ours," Visenya added, her voice carrying that note of absolute certainty that brooked no argument. "Our treasure, our heart."

Ghost had positioned himself as guardian of their intimate ritual, red eyes scanning their surroundings with the eternal vigilance of a pack leader while his family engaged in the bonding behaviors that reinforced their hierarchy and connection.

Eventually, practical necessity demanded they actually finish washing and begin the process of dressing for travel. But even that became an opportunity for casual intimacy—hands steadying as someone stepped into trousers, fingers trailing along newly revealed skin as garments were adjusted, lips pressing brief kisses to shoulders and necks as clothing covered what had been accessible.

Their traveling clothes were designed for Essos's heat—soft linen and silk that moved with their bodies, practical but attractive garments that provided protection without sacrificing comfort or mobility. Lyarra chose dark blue trousers with the characteristic side gaps that allowed air circulation, paired with a sleeveless tunic that left her arms and back exposed to catch any available breeze.

Visenya favored similar trousers in deep purple, but chose a fitted vest that left her arms free for weapon work while providing more coverage across her torso. The practical needs of command meant her clothing always carried subtle reminders of her status—better fabric, more precise tailoring, the kind of details that spoke of authority even in traveling dress.

Daenerys reached for her preferred soft blue dress, the flowing fabric designed to move with desert winds while remaining modest enough for public appearances. The color brought out her eyes and complemented her silver-gold hair, creating an image of ethereal beauty that served her political needs as much as her personal comfort.

But even the simple act of dressing became charged with possessive energy. Hands lingered as they helped with laces and adjustments, touches trailed along exposed skin before fabric covered it, lips pressed quick kisses to whatever remained accessible.

The dragons and Ghost observed these rituals with the satisfied attention of creatures whose pack was behaving exactly as nature intended—claiming and being claimed, reinforcing bonds that went deeper than mere affection into something primal and permanent.

The transition from private intimacy to public command required a subtle but complete transformation. The moment they stepped from their pavilion, the three queens shifted into the roles that tens of thousands of people depended upon—no longer lovers stealing moments of tenderness, but the Dragon's Triad whose decisions meant life or death for an army larger than most cities.

The camp was already stirring with the organized chaos of a host preparing to march. Cookfires sent columns of smoke into the morning sky, while the steady rhythm of hammers breaking down temporary shelters created a percussion that would accompany their day. But this wasn't merely an army on the move—it was a migration, a moving city of freed slaves, former soldiers, camp followers, traders, and families who had chosen to cast their lot with the dragon queens rather than remain in the ruins of their old lives.

Lyarra's violet eyes swept across the scene with the analytical precision of someone raised to manage vast northern holdings. "The supply wagons are taking too long to form up," she observed quietly, her voice carrying just to her companions. "We'll lose half the morning if they don't start moving within the hour."

Visenya nodded, already cataloguing the dozen small inefficiencies that could compound into major problems across a march of this scale. "I'll speak with the auxiliary commanders. They need to understand that speed means survival in this heat."

Daenerys's attention focused on the clusters of families gathered around their few possessions—children who'd known nothing but slavery now facing the uncertainty of freedom, parents who'd risked everything on the promise of a better life. "The civilians need more water bearers," she said, her political instincts automatically identifying the humanitarian concerns that could become political disasters. "Children can't march in this heat without constant hydration."

Their dragons and Ghost had followed them from the pavilion, though in public the creatures maintained more formal positioning. Sylveris stayed close to Visenya's shoulder, her snow-white scales with black spotting catching the morning light as amber eyes surveyed the camp with territorial assessment. Drakarion padded alongside Daenerys, his obsidian bulk with crimson highlights serving as both companion and warning to anyone who might harbor thoughts of approaching their mother with ill intent.

Nira remained closest to Lyarra, her frost-pale scales shimmering like captured starlight as violet eyes—so like her mother's—tracked potential threats with the paranoid intensity of a creature who understood that protecting her family meant eternal vigilance. Ghost ranged slightly wider, his dire wolf instincts creating a perimeter that gave their group space while allowing him to monitor approaches from multiple directions.

"Your Graces." The voice belonged to Ser Barristan Selmy, his weathered face carrying the respectful concern that marked his every interaction with them. The aging knight had adapted to serving three queens with the professionalism that came from decades of royal service, though the complexity of their relationship clearly tested even his experienced discretion.

"Ser Barristan," Visenya acknowledged, her tone carrying the formal respect she'd learned to show the legendary knight. Of all their advisors, he alone had earned something approaching genuine trust through consistent competence and transparent loyalty. "What's the morning report?"

"The Unsullied are ready to march within the quarter hour," he reported, his eyes automatically cataloguing their formation and the positions of their dragons. "Grey Worm has the vanguard organized and the rear guard positions assigned. The auxiliary commanders report mixed readiness among their units."

That last comment carried subtle weight—a diplomatic way of noting that their freed slave army, while enthusiastic, still struggled with the discipline that came naturally to the Unsullied's brutal training regimen.

"Where are Vyren and Vorala?" Daenerys asked, her voice carrying the particular tone that meant she was about to make decisions that others would be expected to implement immediately.

"Approaching now, Your Grace," Barristan replied, gesturing toward two figures making their way through the organized chaos of the camp.

Vyren Hestel moved with the economical grace of someone who'd learned that wasted motion could mean death, his dark skin weathered by years of sun and war. His eyes held the calculating patience of a former mercenary who'd survived by being smarter and more ruthless than his enemies. Beside him, Vorala Foranar radiated the focused energy of someone young enough to still believe in transformation through excellence. Her crisp uniform spoke of personal pride, while her alert gaze catalogued everything with the hunger of someone determined to prove herself worthy of the trust placed in her.

"Your Graces," Vyren said, offering the respectful bow that acknowledged authority without servility. "The Third and Fourth Auxiliaries are ready to march. Some delays with the supply trains, but nothing that should impact our timetable significantly."

Vorala stepped forward with barely contained eagerness. "The Second Auxiliary has volunteers ready to assist with water distribution among the civilian population. We've identified the families with young children and elderly members who'll need additional support."

The offer demonstrated exactly why these two had risen to inner circle status—they anticipated needs and offered solutions rather than simply reporting problems. But it also highlighted the constant balancing act required to manage a force this diverse.

"Excellent initiative," Lyarra said, genuine approval warming her voice. "But we need to be careful not to strip combat effectiveness for humanitarian concerns. What's your recommended allocation?"

It was a test, and Vorala rose to meet it. "Two dozen volunteers from each auxiliary unit, rotated daily so no single company bears the full burden. The Unsullied maintain full combat readiness while the auxiliaries handle support functions."

Visenya nodded approvingly. "Implement it. But I want hourly reports on unit cohesion. The moment we see combat effectiveness declining, we adjust the allocation."

The conversation was interrupted by approaching footsteps that carried different energy—less respectful, more familiar. Ser Jorah Mormont's approach always brought subtle tension to their group, the weight of past betrayals and ongoing suspicions creating undercurrents that everyone felt but no one directly addressed.

"Your Graces," Jorah said, his tone carrying the complex mixture of devotion and presumption that marked all his interactions with them. "I've completed the scouting reports from our forward elements. No sign of Yunkish pursuit, but we've had reports of increased slaver activity along the coastal routes."

The information was valuable, but the way he delivered it—with the subtle implication that his counsel was particularly crucial—grated against the careful dynamics they'd established with their other advisors. Where Barristan offered expertise with humility, Jorah's service carried undertones of expectation that made all three queens uncomfortable.

"Thank you, Ser Jorah," Daenerys replied with the careful courtesy that had replaced her former warmth. "Please coordinate with Ser Barristan on defensive positioning for the march."

The dismissal was polite but clear, and Jorah's brief expression of disappointment before he bowed and withdrew spoke to ongoing tensions that couldn't be openly addressed without destabilizing their command structure.

"The man tries," Barristan observed quietly once Jorah was out of earshot, his diplomatic phrasing managing to convey both understanding and subtle warning.

"He does," Visenya agreed, her tone carrying layers of meaning that acknowledged both Jorah's service and the reasons for their ongoing wariness. "But loyalty proven through crisis is worth more than loyalty declared through comfort."

The morning's organizational tasks continued with the efficient choreography of experienced leadership. Missandei appeared with scrolls requiring attention—supply requisitions, correspondence from their agents in other cities, reports from the scouts ranging ahead of their main column. Her presence brought a different energy to their group, the young woman's quick intelligence and genuine loyalty creating a pocket of trust in the complex web of political relationships that surrounded them.

"Messages from Meereen," she reported, her accented voice carrying the careful neutrality she'd learned to maintain when delivering potentially troubling news. "The Great Masters are... unsettled by reports of our approach."

"I imagine they are," Lyarra said dryly, accepting the scroll and scanning its contents with practiced efficiency. "Anything specific we should know about their preparations?"

"Increased slave patrols, restrictions on movement in the lower districts, and what appears to be preparation for siege conditions," Missandei replied. "Our contacts suggest they're debating whether to attempt negotiation or immediate resistance."

The information aligned with their expectations but added concrete details to their strategic planning. Meereen would not fall as easily as Yunkai—the Great Masters there had time to prepare and learn from the failures of their fellow slavers.

"How long until we reach their outer territories?" Daenerys asked, already shifting into the mental framework required for siege planning.

"Four days at current pace, Your Grace," Grey Worm answered, his arrival timed with the precision that marked all Unsullied actions. "But the civilian population will slow our advance once we encounter resistance."

It was a tactical consideration that highlighted the ongoing challenge of leading both army and migration. Traditional military thinking would suggest leaving the civilians in protected camps while the army advanced, but political reality meant they couldn't afford to appear to abandon the people who'd chosen to follow them.

"Options for civilian protection during siege operations?" Visenya asked, her strategic mind already working through the complications.

"Fortified camps at safe distance from the city," Vyren suggested, his mercenary background providing practical perspective. "Close enough for rapid communication, far enough to avoid artillery or sally attacks."

"With adequate water access and defensive positions," Vorala added, her attention to humanitarian details balancing the purely military considerations.

The planning session continued as the camp around them completed its transformation from temporary city to moving column. The three queens moved through their responsibilities with practiced efficiency, their different strengths complementing each other in ways that had become natural through months of shared command.

But underneath the professional competence, the intimate bonds forged in private moments continued to influence their public leadership. Subtle touches as they passed scrolls between them, meaningful glances when advisors presented conflicting information, the unconscious way they positioned themselves to maintain physical connection even while focused on command responsibilities.

Their dragons and Ghost remained constant presences throughout the morning's activities, living symbols of power that reinforced their authority while providing emotional anchoring that allowed them to maintain focus under the constant pressure of command decisions.

The sun climbed higher as the last elements of their host fell into marching formation—a column that stretched for miles across the Essosi landscape, carrying the hopes and fears of everyone who'd chosen freedom over familiar bondage.

~

The first glimpse of Meereen came at dawn, appearing through the morning haze like something from legend made manifest.

Where Astapor had been uniformly red and Yunkai a monotonous yellow, Meereen was a symphony of color—bricks of azure blue and deep crimson, sunset orange and forest green, creating patterns and designs that spoke of wealth beyond imagining. The walls themselves were a work of art, but art designed for war. They rose higher than Yunkai's fortifications, their surface studded with bastions that projected deadly crossfire zones and anchored by massive defensive towers at every angle.

But it was the Great Pyramid that truly dominated the skyline—a monstrous construction that stretched eight hundred feet into the sky, its stepped sides gleaming in the morning sun. Atop it, the bronze harpy spread wings that could be seen for miles, a symbol of Ghiscari power that had endured for millennia.

"Gods," Lyarra breathed, her violet eyes cataloguing the defensive advantages with the instinctive assessment of someone raised on siege warfare. "It's a fortress masquerading as a city."

Daenerys sat straighter in her saddle, violet eyes bright with the particular intensity that came when she faced a challenge worthy of her attention. "It's beautiful," she said, and there was genuine appreciation in her voice alongside the calculation. "And it will be ours."

Visenya's analysis was more practical, her strategic mind already working through the tactical problems that those magnificent walls represented. "The towers provide overlapping fields of fire along the entire perimeter. Any direct assault would be suicide without massive artillery support."

Their dragons had grown considerably during the march from Yunkai—not yet large enough for riders, but Drakarion and Sylveris in particular showed the rapid development that spoke of approaching maturity. The great black dragon with his crimson highlights moved restlessly alongside the column, amber eyes fixed on the distant city with predatory interest. Sylveris maintained her position near Visenya, but her snow-white scales with black spotting caught the light as she craned her neck toward Meereen, amber eyes holding intelligence that went beyond mere animal curiosity.

Nira, despite being the youngest, showed no intimidation at the sight of their objective. Her frost-pale scales shimmered with contained energy as violet eyes—so like Lyarra's own—assessed the city with the cold calculation of a creature born for war. The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx flanked the group, their ivory-gold and green-bronze coloring creating a display that drew eyes from across their host.

"Distance to the walls?" Visenya asked, already beginning the complex calculations required for siege positioning.

"Three miles," Ser Barristan replied, his weathered face showing the professional satisfaction of a knight who appreciated proper fortifications even when they belonged to enemies. "Close enough for effective artillery, far enough to avoid most defensive fire."

The organizational challenge of establishing siege lines around a city this size with a host this large required coordination that tested even their experienced command structure. They needed positions that could maintain effective pressure on Meereen while protecting the massive civilian population that had followed them—families who'd risked everything for freedom but had no place in actual combat operations.

"Grey Worm," Daenerys called, bringing the Unsullied commander forward. "I want the main camp established here—" she gestured to a rise of ground that provided both visibility and defensive advantages "—with the civilian population protected behind earthworks. Close enough for rapid communication, far enough from the walls to avoid artillery."

The Unsullied commander nodded, his scarred face showing the calm competence that made him invaluable in complex operations. "It will be done, Your Grace. The Unsullied will establish perimeter defenses while the auxiliaries construct the earthworks."

Vyren and Vorala had ridden up during the conversation, both studying the city with the professional interest of soldiers who understood they were looking at their immediate future. Vyren's weathered features showed grudging respect for the defensive preparations, while Vorala's sharp eyes were already cataloguing potential weak points and approach routes.

"Siege engines?" Vyren asked, his mercenary background providing practical perspective on the weapons needed for this undertaking.

"We'll need catapults positioned to cover the harbor approaches," Visenya said, her mind working through the tactical requirements. "Without ships, we can't achieve complete blockade, but we can make resupply expensive and dangerous."

"Trebuchets for the walls themselves," Lyarra added, her northern experience with siege warfare providing complementary expertise. "Focus on the gates and any obvious weak points in the fortifications."

The absence of naval support was a significant disadvantage—Meereen's position on Slaver's Bay meant ships could potentially run supplies through the harbor, but positioning siege engines to control the water approaches could limit that advantage considerably.

"Positioning will be crucial," Vorala observed, studying the terrain around the city. "We need overlapping fields of fire but also protected approaches for our own supplies."

The morning was spent in detailed reconnaissance, small groups of scouts mapping the ground around Meereen while the main host began the massive undertaking of establishing what amounted to a temporary city designed to support a prolonged siege. The logistics were staggering—over fifty thousand soldiers and at least as many civilians requiring food, water, shelter, and security while conducting complex military operations.

Missandei appeared with the first reports from their forward scouts, her young face serious as she delivered information that would shape their tactical planning. "The Great Masters have positioned artillery along the wall tops," she reported. "Estimates suggest at least forty catapults with overlapping coverage of all approach routes."

"Expected," Visenya said, though her tone carried subtle concern. "What about sally ports and potential weak points?"

"Three main gates, all heavily fortified," came the reply. "But the scouts noted what appears to be a drainage system along the eastern wall—large enough for men to crawl through if the grating could be removed."

Daenerys leaned forward with interest. "Storm drains leading into the city?"

"Possibly, Your Grace. The positioning suggests they're designed to channel rainwater away from the foundations, which means they likely connect to internal waterways."

It was exactly the kind of tactical intelligence that could turn a months-long siege into a manageable operation, but it would require careful reconnaissance and specialized planning.

"I want detailed maps of the entire drainage system," Lyarra said, her strategic mind already working through infiltration possibilities. "If there's a way inside that doesn't require frontal assault, we need to know about it."

The afternoon brought the arrival of their siege train—massive catapults and trebuchets that had been transported in pieces during the march and now required assembly under the watchful eyes of Meereen's defenders. The process was slow and methodical, each engine positioned with careful attention to both offensive capability and defensive vulnerability.

Drakarion had grown restless as the day progressed, his great bulk moving with predatory energy that spoke of barely contained desire for action. The bronze-and-crimson highlights along his wings and spines caught the afternoon light as he paced the perimeter of their growing camp, amber eyes fixed on the distant city with unmistakable hunger.

"He wants to attack," Daenerys observed, watching her dragon with the understanding that came from their deep bond. "They all do."

It was true—all five dragons showed signs of agitation, their instincts recognizing the pre-battle tension that permeated the camp. Sylveris maintained her disciplined position near Visenya, but her amber eyes held the cold intelligence that marked her as Hedwig reborn, and there was calculation there that spoke of strategic thinking beyond mere animal aggression.

"Soon," Visenya murmured, her hand finding the spot behind Sylveris's ear ridges that always calmed the white-and-black dragon. "But not yet. They're not quite large enough, and we need to understand the defenses first."

Ghost ranged wider than the dragons, his dire wolf instincts creating security perimeters that gave their command group space to work while maintaining awareness of potential threats. His red eyes tracked movement along Meereen's walls with the patient focus of a predator studying prey.

By evening, their siege camp had taken shape—a complex arrangement of defensive positions, artillery emplacements, and support facilities that stretched around Meereen's landward approaches like a tightening noose. The civilian population was safely positioned behind earthworks and palisades, close enough for protection but far enough from combat zones to avoid immediate danger.

The sight of their host arrayed before the city walls sent a clear message—the Dragon's Triad had arrived, and Meereen's days as a slaver city were numbered. The question was how long the Great Masters would choose to prolong their inevitable defeat, and how much blood would be spilled in the process.

As darkness fell, cookfires began dotting the siege camp like earthbound stars, while the bronze harpy atop Meereen's pyramid caught the last rays of sunlight and gleamed like a defiant beacon. The siege of the greatest slaver city had begun.

~

The morning sun caught the bronze harpy atop Meereen's great pyramid as the Dragon's Host assembled before the main gates, a carefully orchestrated display of power designed to accompany their ultimatum. Unsullied spears gleaming like a steel forest, auxiliary units displaying the disciplined confidence of freed slaves who had found purpose in war, siege engines positioned with mathematical precision to remind the defenders of their inevitable fate.

The three queens rode at the center of their host, their armor catching the light as they moved with the easy confidence of conquerors who had never known defeat.

Their dragons had grown considerably during the march, and while still not large enough for riders, their presence sent unmistakable messages to anyone watching from Meereen's walls. Drakarion paced alongside the formation, his obsidian scales with crimson highlights catching the morning light as amber eyes fixed on the distant city with predatory hunger. Sylveris maintained her disciplined position near Visenya, snow-white scales with black spotting creating striking patterns while intelligence that went beyond mere animal cunning assessed their surroundings.

Nira had claimed her usual spot closest to Lyarra, frost-pale scales shimmering like captured starlight as violet eyes—mirrors of her mother's own—tracked potential threats with paranoid intensity. The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx flanked the group, ivory-gold and green-bronze coloring creating a display of power that spoke to Targaryen might made manifest.

Ghost ranged wider, his dire wolf instincts creating security perimeters while red eyes monitored the walls for movement that might indicate sally attempts or archer positioning.

Ser Barristan rode slightly behind the queens, his weathered face showing the professional satisfaction of a knight who appreciated proper military pageantry even when serving those who might soon order its destruction. Grey Worm commanded the Unsullied formation with the mechanical precision that made them legendary, while Vyren and Vorala coordinated their auxiliary units with the competence that had earned them inner circle status.

The plan was straightforward—approach within speaking distance of the walls, deliver the ultimatum that offered surrender with honor versus destruction without mercy, then withdraw to allow the Great Masters time to consider their limited options. Standard siege protocol that had worked effectively at Yunkai.

But Meereen apparently had different ideas about protocol.

The gates opened with ponderous ceremony, and from them emerged something that belonged more in a festival than a siege. The champion who rode forth was armored in scales of copper and jet, mounted upon a white charger whose striped pink-and-white barding matched the silk cloak flowing dramatically from the hero's shoulders. The lance he bore was fourteen feet long, swirled in pink and white with decorative streamers that caught the wind, and his hair was shaped and teased and lacquered into two great curling ram's horns that added another foot to his already impressive height.

He was magnificent in the way that spoke of wealth and training and absolute confidence in his own superiority. He was also exactly the kind of theatrical display that Meereen's Great Masters would choose—intimidation through pageantry rather than practical skill.

Back and forth he rode beneath the walls of multicolored bricks, his voice carrying across the morning air as he challenged the besiegers to send a champion forth to meet him in single combat. His words were flowery, full of references to ancient heroics and the glory of Ghiscari tradition, delivered with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested extensive training in public speaking alongside weapon work.

"Ignore him," Daenerys said quietly, though her violet eyes tracked the champion's movements with automatic calculation. "This changes nothing about our plans."

Visenya's response was more direct. "Theatrical waste of time. We should proceed with the ultimatum and let him prance until he gets tired."

But Ser Barristan's weathered face showed concern that went beyond mere annoyance at delay. "With respect, Your Graces, this isn't something we can simply ignore."

His tone carried the weight of decades spent in similar situations, and all three queens turned their attention to the aging knight with the focus that had learned to value his counsel.

"Wars are not won with swords and spears alone," he continued, his eyes never leaving the prancing champion. "Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in ours."

The tactical wisdom was sound, and frustratingly so. Thousands of soldiers were watching this display, and human nature meant they would interpret whatever happened through the lens of omens and morale. A champion unanswered was a victory for the defenders, regardless of strategic irrelevance.

"He's right," Lyarra said, her violet eyes studying the mounted figure with the cold assessment she brought to all combat problems. "This isn't about the champion himself. It's about what our response says to both armies."

Visenya's jaw tightened with visible frustration. "Then we send Grey Worm or one of the auxiliary commanders. Quick, efficient, done."

"No," Lyarra replied, her voice carrying that particular note of decision that meant argument would be pointless. "That sends the message that we'll ask others to take risks we won't accept ourselves. If we're going to do this, it should be one of us."

The logic was impeccable and terrifying in equal measure. Daenerys's hands tightened on her reins while Visenya's entire body radiated tension that spoke of barely controlled desire to physically prevent what she saw coming.

"Lyarra—" Daenerys began, her voice carrying layers of concern and command and desperate love.

"I'll put an end to the city's champions," Lyarra said simply, already dismounting with the efficient movements of someone who had made a decision and intended to implement it immediately. "Quickly, cleanly, and in full view of both armies."

The practical choice was obvious—among the three of them, Lyarra had the most experience with mounted opponents from her years defending the North. Her fighting style was built around patience and precision rather than aggression, making her less likely to be caught by surprise or theatrical maneuvering.

But practical considerations didn't make the decision any easier for her lovers to accept.

"Let me—" Visenya started, her hand moving automatically toward Dark Sister.

"No." Lyarra's voice carried absolute finality. "You're too aggressive for this kind of fight, and Dany's too valuable politically. This is what I'm good at—ending problems efficiently."

She began the methodical process of checking her equipment, hands moving with practiced efficiency over armor straps and weapon positioning. Frostbite remained in its sheath across her back, the Valyrian steel blade that had been reforged from Brightroar waiting for the moment when it would taste champion's blood.

The mounted hero had noticed their discussion, his voice rising in volume as he issued increasingly elaborate challenges designed to provoke response. His horse pranced beneath him with trained precision, while the pink-and-white lance swept through complex patterns that demonstrated considerable skill in mounted combat.

"He's good," Vyren observed, his mercenary background providing practical assessment of the threat level. "Trained, experienced, confident. This isn't going to be simple."

"It doesn't need to be simple," Lyarra replied, stepping forward into the space between the armies with the calm that always settled over her before violence. "It just needs to be final."

The champion's attention focused on her immediately, his voice shifting from general challenge to specific targeting as he recognized that someone had finally accepted his invitation to dance. His horse wheeled toward her with fluid grace, lance lowering to combat position as fourteen feet of decorated steel aimed directly at her heart.

Lyarra stood perfectly still in the open ground, her hands relaxed at her sides while violet eyes tracked the approaching charge with mathematical precision. She looked impossibly small against the mounted warrior—a single figure in leather and mail facing down a hero from legend.

But there was something in her stillness that spoke of coiled death waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The champion spurred his mount to full gallop, pink-and-white streamers flying from his lance as hoofbeats thundered across the hard-packed earth. His aim was perfect, his form textbook, his confidence absolute as he bore down on the motionless northern queen who seemed frozen by the approaching death.

Lyarra waited.

The lance point came within feet of her chest, close enough that she could see the decorative engravings along its length, before she finally moved. Not backward, not to the side in obvious desperation, but forward and down in a motion so fluid it seemed choreographed.

She rolled under the lance point, her body moving with liquid grace as the weapon passed harmlessly overhead, then came up in a perfect draw that brought Frostbite singing from its sheath. The Valyrian steel blade caught the morning light as it swept in a precise arc aimed not at the rider but at the horse's front legs.

The champion realized his mistake in the instant before impact, his eyes widening as he understood that his theatrical charge had been turned into his own destruction. But momentum is a cruel master, and fourteen feet of lance makes a poor club at close quarters.

Frostbite's edge, honed to preternatural sharpness and empowered by ancient magic, sheared through the destrier's forelegs like they were made of parchment. The horse screamed—a sound that cut across the morning air and sent shivers through both watching armies—before crashing to the ground in an explosion of dust and pink-and-white silk.

The champion flew from his saddle with the helpless grace of a man who had suddenly discovered that physics cared nothing for heroic tradition. He landed hard, his ornate armor clattering against stone and earth as he struggled to orient himself in a world that had suddenly turned upside down.

Lyarra approached with the measured pace of an executioner, Frostbite held ready but not raised in dramatic gesture. There was no theatricality in her movement, no grand pronouncements or theatrical posturing. Just deadly competence walking toward a problem that needed to be solved.

The champion was still trying to rise when her blade took his head from his shoulders in a single economical stroke, Valyrian steel parting flesh and bone with the ease of a knife through silk. His body toppled forward, pink-and-white plumes settling into the dust alongside the spreading pool of blood that marked the end of Meereen's theatrical defiance.

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the dying horse's labored breathing and the whisper of wind across the plain. Fifty thousand soldiers watched as Lyarra cleaned her blade on the champion's silk cloak before sheathing it with the same matter-of-fact efficiency she might use to finish any other task.

When she turned back toward their lines, her violet eyes held no satisfaction, no triumph, no emotion beyond the practical acknowledgment that a problem had been solved. She had delivered exactly the message intended—the Dragon's Host was led by queens who would not ask others to face dangers they themselves would not accept.

The psychological impact was immediate and devastating. Along Meereen's walls, defenders who had cheered their champion's emergence now stared in stunned silence at the bloodstained earth where their hero's confidence had died alongside his body.

The champion's blood had barely finished seeping into the dust when Daenerys urged her horse forward, moving past the scattered remains of Meereen's theatrical defiance to position herself within clear sight and sound of the city's walls. Her presence commanded attention in a way that went beyond mere authority—there was something in her bearing that spoke to the divine right of dragons, the promise of transformation that had already reshaped half of Slaver's Bay.

Behind her, the Dragon's Host remained in perfect formation, soldiers whose disciplined silence created a backdrop that amplified every word she was about to speak. But Daenerys's attention wasn't focused on the glittering armor and colorful banners visible along Meereen's ramparts. Her violet eyes looked higher, to the buildings beyond the walls where smoke from countless cookfires spoke of a different audience entirely.

"People of Meereen!" Her voice carried with practiced projection, trained through months of addressing crowds that numbered in the tens of thousands. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, and I speak not to your masters, but to you!"

The words cut through the morning air like sword strokes, each syllable designed to reach past the walls and into the hearts of those who had no voice in their city's governance. Along the ramparts, she could see figures shifting nervously—masters and overseers who suddenly realized this wasn't going to follow the traditional siege protocols they had prepared for.

"You know who I am," she continued, her voice rising with the passion that had broken chains across two cities. "The dragons came to Astapor, where slaves built pyramids with their blood and tears. Those slaves are free now, and they march with us. The dragons came to Yunkai, where children were stolen from their mothers to be shaped into pleasure slaves. Those children are free now, and they stand beside us  as soldiers and citizens and human beings!"

Drakarion moved closer to his mother, the great black dragon's presence adding weight to words that already carried the force of prophecy. His crimson highlights caught the sunlight as amber eyes fixed on the city walls with unmistakable hunger, while a low rumble from deep in his chest spoke of barely contained fire.

"I am not your enemy!" Daenerys's voice cracked like a whip across the distance. "Your enemy is the one who holds your chains! Your enemy is the one who sells your children in markets like cattle! Your enemy is the one who separates families and brands flesh and believes that some people are born to be property!"

The psychological warfare was brilliant in its simplicity—bypass the power structure entirely and speak directly to those who actually outnumbered their oppressors. Every slave in Meereen was hearing these words, and every master was powerless to prevent it without revealing their own fear of what their human property might do with such ideas.

Visenya and Lyarra had positioned themselves to either side of Daenerys, their dragons and their presence creating a triangle of power that spoke to united purpose. Sylveris spread her wings partially, the snow-white scales with black spotting creating patterns that drew eyes even at this distance, while Nira's frost-pale coloring seemed to shimmer with contained energy.

"Look around you!" Daenerys continued, gesturing toward the host arrayed behind her. "See the Unsullied who were once slaves, now choosing to fight for freedom rather than coin! See the auxiliaries who were once property, now bearing arms as free men and women! See the families who chose to follow dragons rather than accept chains!"

Her words were having visible effect—along the walls, masters and overseers were shouting orders, trying to disperse gatherings of slaves who had crept forward to listen. But the damage was already done, the seed planted in minds that had never before considered the possibility of choice.

"The choice is yours to make," Daenerys concluded, her voice carrying absolute conviction. "When the time comes, remember that dragons break chains. They do not forge new ones."

The silence that followed her speech was electric with possibility, broken only by the nervous movement of horses and the distant sound of shouted orders from within the city. Then Daenerys raised her hand in a signal that had been planned the night before, her violet eyes bright with anticipation.

"Signal the artillery," she called, her voice carrying clearly to Grey Worm and the auxiliary commanders positioned near their siege engines.

But instead of the traditional stones or incendiary materials that might be expected from catapults beginning a siege, their projectiles had been specifically chosen for maximum psychological impact. Barrels filled with broken slave collars—thousands of them, collected from Astapor and Yunkai, each one representing a life that had been freed from bondage.

The first catapult released with a deep thrumming sound that vibrated through the ground, sending its cargo arcing high over Meereen's walls. The barrel shattered against stone and tile, sending its contents cascading across rooftops and streets in a rain of broken iron that caught the morning sunlight like falling stars.

Then the second engine fired, and the third, until the air above Meereen was filled with wooden projectiles that burst like deadly flowers, releasing their symbolic cargo across the city. Broken collars clattered against pyramids and bounced through market squares, while the sound of thousands of metal fragments striking stone created a percussion that spoke louder than any war drum.

The impact on both armies was immediate and profound. Along Meereen's walls, defenders stared in stunned silence as the physical proof of liberation fell like rain around them. These weren't anonymous threats or distant promises—these were actual collars that had once bound actual slaves, now broken and made worthless by dragon fire and Targaryen will.

In the Dragon's Host, thousands of voices rose in a cheer that could be heard for miles, the sound rolling across the plain like thunder made manifest. Former slaves saw their own past falling broken from the sky, while free-born soldiers understood they were witnessing something that would be remembered for generations.

"Let them count the collars," Visenya said quietly, her violet eyes bright with savage satisfaction. "Let them understand exactly how many chains we've already broken."

The psychological warfare was perfect in its execution—no blood spilled except the champion's, no immediate threat to civilian life, but a message delivered with unmistakable clarity. The dragons had come to Meereen, and with them came the promise of transformation that no wall could keep out.

Lyarra watched the broken metal continuing to fall across the city, her practical mind already calculating the next steps in their siege strategy. "How long before they send a response?"

"They're responding now," Daenerys replied, nodding toward the city walls where frantic activity was becoming visible. "Look at them scramble to collect every collar before their slaves can see them too closely."

It was true—masters and overseers were already organizing parties to gather the scattered metal, desperate to remove the physical evidence of liberation before it could inspire hope in quarters where hope was the most dangerous commodity of all.

But hope, once planted, has a way of growing in the darkest places. And in Meereen, fifty thousand slaves had just been reminded that their chains were made of iron, not inevitability.

The siege had begun not with blood and fire, but with the sound of broken bondage falling like rain from the sky. And in that sound, those who still wore collars could hear the whisper of possibility that would grow stronger with each passing day.

 

Chapter 18: XVIII

Summary:

Battle of Meereen

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XVIII

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

Dawn came to Slaver's Bay with the color of old blood, the eastern sky painted in shades of crimson and gold that seemed to prophesy the violence about to unfold. The Dragon's Host had spent the night in final preparations, fifty thousand soldiers moving with the quiet efficiency of a machine designed for war. No fires burned in their camp—cold rations and colder steel would serve until Meereen's gates lay broken.

The decision to assault rather than besiege had been made during the war council three nights prior, when it became clear that time favored their enemies rather than themselves. The scorched earth around Meereen provided little forage for their massive host, while the city's position on Slaver's Bay meant supplies could potentially reach the defenders by sea. Most critically, a prolonged siege would mean the slaves within the walls would suffer first and worst—exactly the opposite of everything they had fought to achieve.

"We cannot starve a city where the innocent will die before the guilty," Daenerys had said, her violet eyes hard with determination. "If Meereen will not surrender, then we will take it by force. Quickly, decisively, and with minimal harm to those we came to liberate."

The plan that emerged was ambitious in scope and demanding in execution—a three-pronged assault that would stretch Meereen's defenses beyond their breaking point while providing multiple avenues for success. Success or death, because failure would leave them stranded in hostile territory with limited supplies and no fallback position.

In the pre-dawn darkness, Ser Jorah Mormont had led the infiltration team through the drainage tunnels that scouts had mapped during their reconnaissance. The disgraced knight's volunteering for the most dangerous assignment had surprised no one—his desperate desire to regain the queens' favor was written across his scarred face like scripture. With him went fifty Unsullied and an equal number of auxiliaries, all hand-picked for their ability to move silently through confined spaces while carrying enough weapons to hold a position once established.

"If the sewers are as extensive as reported," Grey Worm had observed during planning, "a small force emerging inside the walls could seize a gate from within. Combined with external pressure, it should prove decisive."

The approach had required careful timing—too early and they would be discovered before the main assault could support them, too late and the gates would be too heavily defended for a small force to hold. Everything depended on coordination that left no room for error.

Now, as the first light touched the bronze harpy atop Meereen's great pyramid, the main assault began with the deep thrumming of scorpion engines sending their bolts singing toward the walls. The massive crossbow projectiles struck stone and mortar with impacts that could be felt through the ground, each one designed to suppress the defensive artillery that could turn their advancing forces into scattered corpses.

Two battering rams moved forward under protective covers that looked like enormous wooden turtles, their surfaces layered with thick hides and reinforced with metal strips. But it was Visenya's magical enhancement that made them truly formidable—wards woven into the wood itself that would turn aside steel and deflect flame, protection that no mundane craft could provide.

"Forward!" Visenya's voice cut across the din of battle as she commanded the northern assault group, Dark Sister gleaming in her hand as she moved with her advancing troops. Her armor caught the early light, leather and mail designed for mobility while providing protection against the arrows and javelins that would soon fill the air.

Three hundred yards south, Lyarra led the second assault group with the same deadly competence that had ended the champion's life the day before. Frostbite remained sheathed across her back, but her hand rested on the pommel with casual readiness while violet eyes tracked the defensive positions with mathematical precision.

"Slingers, advance and loose!" The order came from Vyren, whose mercenary experience with siege warfare provided tactical expertise for coordinating their various missile units. Lead bullets and stones began arcing over the walls in concentrated volleys, designed to make the ramparts dangerous for defenders while the battering rams closed distance.

The response from Meereen's walls was immediate and professionally competent—catapults released their loads of stone and pitch while crossbow bolts began falling like deadly rain around the advancing forces. But the Dragon's Host had planned for this, and their advance continued with disciplined precision even as men began falling to defensive fire.

The real innovation came when the battering rams reached the gates and the defenders attempted their traditional response. Hatches opened along the wall tops, designed to pour streams of boiling oil down onto any force attempting to breach the entrances. It was a tactic that had broken countless assaults throughout history, turning armored warriors into screaming torches in the space of heartbeats.

But oil, like arrows and stones, was a mundane threat against magical protection.

The boiling streams struck Visenya's enhanced covers and simply flowed away, the protective wards turning aside liquid fire as easily as they might deflect a sword blow. The sight of their most reliable defensive measure proving useless sent visible ripples of dismay through the defenders, while the Dragon's Host pressed their advantage with renewed vigor.

"First gate team, begin your work!" Lyarra's voice carried clearly over the sound of battle as her battering ram reached its target and began the rhythmic pounding that would eventually reduce even the strongest gates to splinters.

The coordination was perfect—as the rams began their work, ladder teams advanced to begin scaling the walls at points where defensive fire had been suppressed by their missile troops. Each ladder was defended by a small group of elite fighters, veterans who understood that holding their position might determine the fate of the entire assault.

But it was the dragons that truly transformed the character of the battle.

Drakarion swept low over the eastern wall, his black scales with crimson highlights making him nearly invisible against the pre-dawn sky until flame erupted from his jaws in a controlled burst that cleared a section of rampart with surgical precision. The defenders scattered like leaves before wind, their professional competence crumbling in the face of primal terror that no amount of training could overcome.

Sylveris followed moments later, her snow-white scales catching the light as she angled toward a cluster of scorpion engines that had been causing casualties among the ladder teams. The flame that poured from her throat was precise rather than widespread, turning siege engines into twisted metal without endangering the civilians beyond.

Nira's approach was different—the frost-pale dragon seemed to simply appear above a section of wall where resistance had been heaviest, her violet eyes finding targets with the same cold calculation her mother brought to ground combat. When flame came, it came with purpose, eliminating specific threats rather than spreading general destruction.

The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx worked in perfect coordination, their ivory-gold and green-bronze forms creating a display that spoke to Targaryen power while their flames cleared defenders from positions that threatened the assault teams. None of the dragons were large enough for riders yet, but their presence alone was enough to break the morale of forces who had never faced such creatures in actual combat.

"Second ladder team, advance!" Visenya's command came as her section of wall was momentarily cleared by Drakarion's pass, the Unsullied moving with mechanical precision even under the stress of active combat.

The magical protection on their siege equipment was proving decisive in ways that went beyond mere defensive capability. Every time the defenders attempted to use their traditional countermeasures and saw them fail, their confidence eroded a little further. Oil that should have burned simply flowed away, stones that should have shattered the covers bounced off harmlessly, and arrows that should have found gaps in protection were turned aside by forces beyond their understanding.

Meanwhile, somewhere in the sewers beneath the city, Jorah's infiltration team was fighting their way through drainage tunnels that reeked of human waste and decades of accumulated filth. The approach was nightmarish—crawling through spaces barely wide enough for armored men while trying to maintain unit cohesion and readiness for combat.

"Grating ahead," whispered one of the Unsullied scouts, his voice barely audible over the sound of distant battle filtering down through stone and earth. "Iron bars, but they look rusted. Might be able to force them."

The timing was critical—they needed to emerge inside the walls at the moment when external pressure would prevent the defenders from concentrating forces against them. Too early and they would be overwhelmed, too late and the assault might fail while they remained trapped underground.

Above them, the battle was reaching its crescendo as both battering rams found their rhythm and began the systematic destruction of Meereen's gates. The sound was rhythmic and inexorable, each impact sending vibrations through stone and earth that spoke of walls that would not hold forever.

"Defensive fire decreasing on the northern approach," reported one of Vyren's spotters, his trained eye cataloguing the subtle changes in enemy response that indicated wavering morale. "They're pulling forces from that section."

It was exactly what Visenya had been waiting for. "All ladder teams, advance! Archers, concentrate fire on the gate towers!"

The assault reached a new level of intensity as Dragon's Host forces pressed every advantage simultaneously. Ladders struck the walls at dozens of points while battering rams continued their methodical work and missile troops kept defensive positions under constant pressure. The dragons added their own contribution with precisely timed strikes that eliminated resistance whenever it began to coalesce into effective opposition.

But the true test would come when they reached the walls themselves and the fighting turned to sword work in confined spaces. All the dragons and catapults in the world meant nothing if they couldn't hold the positions they took, and Meereen's defenders had the advantage of fighting on familiar ground with prepared positions.

"First ladder team has the wall!" The shout came from Lyarra's section, where an Unsullied unit had successfully scaled their ladder and was fighting to expand their foothold against desperate defensive counter-attacks.

The moment had come to discover whether their planning and magical advantages would prove sufficient against the reality of steel and blood in close quarters. And somewhere beneath their feet, Jorah Mormont was about to learn whether fifty men could seize a gate from within while thousands of enemies fought to prevent exactly that outcome.

The breaking of Meereen had begun, and there would be no retreat until the city's fate was decided one way or another.

The rhythmic thunder of the battering rams had become the heartbeat of the assault, each impact reverberating through stone and earth with the inevitability of approaching doom. Visenya's northern ram had found its rhythm first, the massive iron-headed weapon swinging with mechanical precision while the defenders' desperate attempts to stop it proved futile against magical protection.

"Again!" Visenya's voice cut through the din as her assault team maintained their relentless pressure. The gate before them showed visible damage now—iron bands beginning to separate, ancient wood cracking along grain lines that spoke of centuries holding back exactly this kind of assault.

Dark Sister remained in her hand, the Valyrian steel blade catching early sunlight as she moved with her advancing forces. Her armor, leather and mail designed for exactly this kind of close-quarters work, showed several new dents from stones and crossbow bolts that had found their mark despite the magical protections.

The defenders above were pouring everything they had onto the assault—more oil that flowed harmlessly away, stones that bounced off warded covers, arrows that struck with the desperate frequency of men who understood their city's fate hung in the balance. But desperation, however fierce, was a poor substitute for the methodical competence that had conquered half of Slaver's Bay.

"One more strike should do it," called the ram's crew chief, a grizzled auxiliary who had learned siege work during the conquest of Yunkai. His assessment proved prophetic—the next impact sent visible cracks racing through the gate's ancient timbers, while the iron reinforcements began to buckle under stress they were never designed to withstand.

The final blow came with a sound like thunder, the massive gate exploding inward in a shower of splinters and twisted metal that cleared the gateway like a scythe through wheat. Behind the ruined barrier lay a brief corridor that opened onto Meereen's streets, where hastily assembled defenders waited with weapons drawn and desperation written across their faces.

"Unsullied, advance!" Visenya's command was picked up and repeated down the line as the first spear units moved through the breach with mechanical precision. These were the moments that separated disciplined soldiers from armed mobs—the ability to maintain formation and tactical coherence even in the chaos of urban combat.

The spear wall that emerged from the broken gate was a thing of deadly beauty, bronze points leveled with mathematical precision while shields locked together in patterns that had conquered cities across Essos. Behind them came the auxiliary units, their mixed weapons and varied experience providing flexibility that complemented Unsullied discipline.

But it was three hundred yards south that the truly decisive moment occurred, though none of the northern assault team would know it until later.

Lyarra's battering ram had been making slower progress against a gate that seemed somehow more resistant to their efforts, each impact producing less visible damage than Visenya's team was achieving. The defenders above this section seemed more numerous and better organized, their defensive fire more concentrated and effective despite the dragons' periodic strikes.

"Another minute, maybe two," her ram crew chief reported, frustration evident in his voice as the ancient gate proved more stubborn than expected. "The wood's harder here, more metal reinforcement."

It was in that moment of grinding persistence that salvation came from an entirely unexpected direction.

The smaller gate beside the main entrance—used for foot traffic and individual messengers rather than large groups—suddenly swung open from within. Through the gap came Ser Jorah Mormont, his armor streaked with filth and blood while his sword dripped with evidence of the fighting that had brought him to this moment.

"Gate's open!" he shouted, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of battle. "Gatehouse is secured!"

Behind him came the survivors of his infiltration team—perhaps thirty of the fifty who had entered the sewers, their faces grim with the knowledge of what their success had cost. But they had done exactly what the plan required, fighting their way through drainage tunnels and emerging inside the walls to seize the gate mechanisms from defenders who never expected attack from that direction.

The coordination that followed was textbook perfect, the kind of tactical execution that separated professional armies from mere collections of armed men. Even as Jorah's team held the smaller gate open, they were working to unlock the massive main barrier that Lyarra's ram had been hammering against.

"All units, through the breach!" Lyarra's command came as both gates swung wide, creating a gap large enough for her entire assault force to pour through simultaneously. The sight of Unsullied spear walls advancing in perfect formation while auxiliary units moved to secure flanking positions was exactly the kind of disciplined assault that had made the Dragon's Host legendary.

Lyarra moved with the first wave, Frostbite finally drawn and ready as she advanced through streets that were about to become a battlefield. The Valyrian steel blade seemed to shimmer with anticipation, its edge honed to supernatural sharpness while ancient magic waited to taste the blood of those who would defend slavery.

The street fighting that followed was brutal in its intensity and mercifully brief in its duration.

Meereen's defenders had prepared for siege warfare—walls and gates and artillery duels that would allow them to use their fortifications as force multipliers. They had not prepared for disciplined troops advancing through their streets with the methodical precision of a machine designed for urban combat.

The first clash came at a hastily prepared barricade two streets from the gate, where merchants and freedmen had piled carts and furniture in a desperate attempt to channel the assault into a killing ground. It might have worked against an undisciplined mob, but Unsullied spear walls treated obstacles as tactical problems to be solved rather than barriers to be feared.

"Left flank, around the barricade," Grey Worm's voice carried clearly as he coordinated the assault with the same mechanical precision he brought to drill formations. "Center units, maintain pressure. Auxiliaries, secure that building for archer positions."

The barricade held for perhaps three minutes before overwhelming tactical superiority made its defense pointless. Spears found gaps in improvised fortifications while auxiliary units moved to flanking positions that turned the defenders' cover into a trap. When the position finally broke, it broke completely—defenders scattering in all directions as organized resistance collapsed into individual flight.

Lyarra found herself engaged with a Meereenese officer who had chosen to make his stand at the barricade's center, his curved sword moving with the fluid grace of someone trained. He was good—better than good, with reflexes and technique that spoke of years perfecting his craft.

But good was not enough against Valyrian steel wielded by someone who had learned warfare in the frozen North where mistakes meant death.

Their blades met in a shower of sparks, his bronze sword ringing against Frostbite's ancient metal while both fighters tested each other's measure. He was faster than her, his technique more refined, his footwork displaying the kind of training that cost small fortunes and years of dedication.

None of it mattered when her next strike sheared through his blade like it was made of parchment, Valyrian steel proving its worth as Frostbite continued its arc to open his throat in a spray of crimson that painted the barricade stones.

"Second barricade ahead," reported one of Vyren's scouts, his voice tight with the adrenaline that came from close-quarters fighting in unfamiliar terrain. "Heavier construction, more defenders. They're learning."

But learning took time, and time was exactly what the defenders lacked. Even as they struggled to adapt their tactics to the reality of professional soldiers in their streets, Visenya's assault group was advancing from the north while dragons provided overhead support that made concentrated resistance suicidal.

The second barricade lasted longer—perhaps ten minutes of vicious fighting as defenders who had seen their first position overrun fought with the desperation of men who understood what defeat would mean. Spears clashed against improvised weapons while crossbow bolts flew from windows and rooftops in deadly volleys that claimed lives on both sides.

It was Drakarion who ended the stalemate, the black dragon's controlled flame strike eliminating a cluster of crossbow positions that had been inflicting casualties on the advancing Unsullied. The defenders' morale, already strained by the sight of their gates broken and their walls breached, finally snapped under the pressure of dragonfire used with surgical precision.

"They're breaking!" The shout came from multiple voices as organized resistance finally collapsed into individual flight. Masters and overseers who had commanded from the rear suddenly found themselves abandoned by fighters who had chosen survival over service, while the streets filled with running figures seeking safety in buildings that offered no real protection.

The fighting continued for another hour as scattered groups of defenders attempted to hold key buildings or important intersections, but the outcome was no longer in doubt. Street by street, building by building, the Dragon's Host advanced with the methodical thoroughness that had conquered cities across Essos.

Lyarra found herself at the center of the final major engagement, where a group of fighters had chosen to make their stand at a small pyramid that served as a district administrative center. These were professional killers rather than hastily armed citizens, men whose livelihood depended on their ability to survive combat against skilled opponents.

They died anyway, because individual skill meant nothing against coordinated tactics supported by Valyrian steel. Frostbite carved through their ranks with mechanical precision while Unsullied spears provided support that turned what might have been a challenging fight into systematic execution.

"Quarter for those who yield!" Lyarra's voice carried clearly across the small plaza as the last pit fighter dropped his weapons and fell to his knees. The mercy was tactical rather than humanitarian—prisoners could provide intelligence about remaining resistance, and demonstrations of clemency might encourage others to surrender rather than fight to the death.

By noon, the sounds of battle had died to scattered skirmishes as the last defenders either fled or yielded. The great pyramid still flew Meereen's banners, but the city below belonged to dragons and those who served them. The liberation of Slaver's Bay's greatest stronghold was complete, achieved in a single morning's work that would reshape the political landscape of an entire continent.

But with victory came the far more complex challenge of governing a conquered city filled with those they had come to liberate, while ensuring that freedom replaced slavery rather than merely changing the identity of those who held power over others.

~

The Great Pyramid of Meereen cast long shadows across the plaza where the remnants of the city's ruling class knelt in chains, their silk robes torn and stained with the dust of defeat. Forty-three Great Masters had been taken alive during the final sweep of the city—some captured in their pyramids trying to flee, others surrendering when resistance became pointless, a few dragged from hiding places that spoke of cowardice rather than wisdom.

Lyarra sat on a wooden crate that had been abandoned during the fighting, methodically cleaning blood from Frostbite's blade with a piece of torn silk that had once been some master's finery. The Valyrian steel gleamed as she worked, each stroke of the cloth revealing metal that seemed to hold its own inner light. Her armor bore the marks of close combat—dents from weapons that had found their mark, scratches from stone and metal, dark stains that spoke of how close some exchanges had been.

The exhaustion was bone-deep now that the battle-fury had faded, leaving behind the hollow feeling that always followed violence. Her muscles ached from hours of fighting in armor, while her sword arm trembled slightly with fatigue that came from wielding Valyrian steel through dozens of individual combats.

Visenya stood nearby, Dark Sister sheathed but her hand still resting on the pommel while violet eyes tracked the movements of Dragon's Host soldiers securing the plaza. The magic she had woven during the assault still sang in her blood—enhancement spells that had pushed her body beyond its normal limits, wards that had turned aside steel and flame, battle-sorcery that left her feeling as if lightning coursed through her veins.

The intoxication was dangerous in its intensity, power that whispered of what she could accomplish if she simply reached further, pushed harder, took more from the forces she commanded. But control was everything in magic, and she maintained her discipline even as energy that could reshape reality buzzed through her system like strong wine.

Daenerys had arrived moments ago, her dragons settling on nearby rooftops while their mother surveyed the fruits of conquest. Drakarion perched atop a merchant's building, his black scales with crimson highlights catching the afternoon light while amber eyes tracked potential threats with predatory patience. The other dragons had found similar positions, creating a perimeter of draconic power that reminded everyone exactly who ruled this city now.

But it was Daenerys herself who commanded attention—violet eyes bright with fury that had been building since they passed the first mile marker on their approach to Meereen. One hundred and sixty-three children had been crucified along that road, each small body nailed to wooden posts as a message to any who would challenge Meereen's power.

"Look at them," she said, her voice carrying the kind of controlled rage that was more dangerous than screaming. "Kneeling in chains, begging for mercy they never showed to those they owned."

The Great Masters had indeed been pleading since the moment they were dragged before the pyramid, their voices rising in a chorus of desperation that spoke of men who had never expected to face consequences for their actions. Some offered gold, others political alliances, a few even suggested they had always opposed the practice of slavery despite the evidence of their participation.

"Your Grace," one of them called out, his voice cracking with terror. "We are civilized men! We demand to be treated according to the laws of war!"

"Civilized?" Daenerys's voice rose slightly, though she maintained the iron control that made her words more cutting than shouts. "Was it civilized to crucify children? Was it civilized to nail babies to posts like warnings to your enemies?"

The reminder silenced the protests, leaving only the sound of wind across the plaza and the distant voices of soldiers continuing their sweep of the city. The mile markers had been a calculated atrocity, designed to break the spirit of any army approaching Meereen by forcing them to see exactly what the Great Masters were capable of.

"One hundred and sixty-three," Daenerys continued, beginning to pace before the kneeling figures with predatory grace. "One hundred and sixty-three innocents murdered to send a message. I think we should send one of our own."

The implication was clear, and several of the Great Masters began weeping openly while others maintained desperate dignity in the face of approaching death. Lyarra felt her own anger stirring at the memory of those small bodies, the flies and the stench and the waste of lives that had barely begun.

But anger, however justified, was a poor foundation for the kind of justice they claimed to represent.

"Dany," she said quietly, her voice carrying clearly in the afternoon air. "Think about what you're proposing."

Violet eyes snapped toward her, bright with fury that had been seeking an outlet since they began their march through that corridor of crucified children. "They murdered babies, Lyarra. Nailed them to posts like road signs. Are you telling me they don't deserve to die?"

"I'm not saying they don't deserve it," Lyarra replied, setting Frostbite aside and rising to face the woman she loved. "I'm saying we need to think about what killing them accomplishes, and what message it sends."

The distinction was important, and she could see Daenerys struggling with the implications even as rage demanded immediate satisfaction. These were the moments that defined rulers—not the easy decisions made in comfort, but the hard choices that came in the aftermath of battle when justice and vengeance wore similar faces.

Visenya stepped closer, her own voice carrying the controlled tension of magical energy still seeking release. "They're monsters who deserve whatever we do to them. But Lyarra's right about the politics."

"Politics?" Daenerys's voice carried dangerous edge. "Children died on those posts, and you want to talk about politics?"

"I want to talk about why we're here," Lyarra answered, meeting violet eyes with her own and refusing to flinch from the fury she saw there. "We came to liberate slaves, not to become conquerors who execute prisoners in public squares."

The words hung in the air like blade-strikes, cutting through emotional reaction to expose the heart of their dilemma. Everything they had built—the reputation as liberators rather than tyrants, the loyalty of freed slaves who saw them as saviors rather than new masters—depended on being seen as different from those they replaced.

"Execute them all right now, and what's the difference between us and them?" Lyarra continued, her voice carrying the hard pragmatism that had kept the North alive through countless crises. "We become the conquerors who kill whoever opposes us, and every slave in this city starts wondering when we'll decide they're inconvenient too."

She could see the struggle playing out across Daenerys's face—love for the children who had died warring with understanding of what their response needed to accomplish. The easy answer was blood for blood, death for death, an eye for an eye until the world went blind.

The right answer was harder.

"But we can't just let them go," Daenerys said finally, her voice carrying the weight of someone who understood the political realities even as she struggled with them. "Those children deserve justice, not mercy for their killers."

"Then we give them justice," Lyarra replied. "Real justice, not vengeance dressed up in prettier words. Let the freed slaves judge them. Let those who suffered under their rule decide what punishment fits their crimes."

The suggestion was elegant in its simplicity—trials conducted by those who had been enslaved, with verdicts rendered by those who understood the true cost of the Great Masters' actions. It served multiple purposes simultaneously: justice for the victims, legitimacy through popular participation, and demonstration that the new order would be based on law rather than the whims of conquerors.

Visenya nodded slowly, her magical enhancement finally beginning to fade as she considered the implications. "Trials give us time to establish proper governance, too. Let the city see that we're building something new rather than just replacing the old masters with ourselves."

Daenerys stood silent for a long moment, violet eyes moving between the kneeling Great Masters and the faces of her loves who had offered counsel when rage might have led her astray. The decision would echo through their conquest of Essos—whether they would be remembered as liberators who brought justice, or conquerors who simply changed the identity of those holding power over others.

"You're right," she said finally, her voice carrying quiet authority rather than fury. "I don't want to be a conqueror or a butcher, no matter how much they might deserve it."

She turned toward the Great Masters, her presence commanding absolute attention as she prepared to deliver their fate. "You will stand trial before those you enslaved. They will hear evidence of your crimes, and they will decide your punishment. That is more justice than you showed to the children on those posts, and more mercy than you have any right to expect."

The relief visible on several faces was premature—trials conducted by former slaves were unlikely to result in acquittals for their former masters. But the process itself was what mattered, the demonstration that the new order would be built on law and justice rather than the arbitrary violence that had characterized the old.

"Take them to secure holding," Daenerys continued, nodding toward Grey Worm. "Separate cells, no communication between them. We'll begin organizing the trials once the city is fully secured."

As the Great Masters were led away in chains, Lyarra felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. The decision had been made correctly, even if it meant delaying the satisfaction that immediate execution might have provided. Building something better than what they had replaced required patience and wisdom, qualities that were harder to maintain than the simple application of force.

"Good choice," she said quietly, settling back onto her crate to finish cleaning her blade.

"The right choice," Daenerys replied, though her eyes still held traces of the fury that had demanded blood. "Even if it's not the easy one."

The liberation of Meereen was complete, but the real work—building a free society from the ruins of slavery—was only just beginning.

~

The chamber that had been prepared for them was a master's suite in one of the smaller pyramids, its windows offering a view across Meereen's conquered streets where Dragon's Host patrols moved like ghosts in the moonlight. The sounds of occupation filtered up through stone and distance—soldiers checking buildings, former slaves celebrating their freedom, the low murmur of a city learning to exist under new masters.

Missandei had finally been convinced to rest after hours of translating between freed slaves and their liberators, the young girl's exhaustion written across her face like a child's after too long at adult business. Watching her struggle to remain upright while insisting she could continue working had been the final push that sent the three queens toward their own much-needed rest.

"She reminds me of myself at that age," Daenerys had said quietly as they climbed the pyramid's steps. "Trying so hard to prove her worth that she forgets she's still just a child."

The dragons followed them into the chamber, Drakarion settled in a corner with the patient watchfulness of a guardian, while Sylveris and Nira found positions that allowed them to monitor the windows and door simultaneously. The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx curled together near the far wall, their different colorations creating patterns that caught the lamplight.

Ghost padded in last, his dire wolf senses completing a security perimeter that no enemy could breach undetected. The great white wolf's red eyes surveyed the room once before he settled near the door, massive form radiating protective menace.

"Finally," Visenya breathed, leaning against the closed door as the weight of command settled heavier now that they were alone. The magical enhancement she had used during the battle had long since faded, leaving behind exhaustion that went bone-deep and a hollow feeling that always followed extended spellwork.

Lyarra moved toward one of the chairs with the careful precision of someone whose body had been pushed beyond its limits. Every step revealed new aches from hours of fighting in armor, muscles that had been strained by wielding Valyrian steel through dozens of individual combats. A purple bruise was already forming along her left shoulder where a mace blow had found its mark despite her armor.

"Let me," Daenerys said, her voice carrying gentle authority as she moved to intercept Lyarra before she could settle into furniture that would make movement more difficult. "Both of you, just... let me take care of you tonight."

There was something in her tone that spoke to needs that went beyond the physical—the desire to tend and comfort those she loved after watching them risk their lives in her service. Conquest might be necessary, but seeing Lyarra and Visenya in battle never failed to terrify her with possibilities she refused to consider.

She began with Visenya, her fingers working with practiced efficiency at the buckles and straps that held her armor in place. Leather and mail that had protected her during the assault came away piece by piece, revealing the lean muscle underneath and the small collection of bruises that spoke of how close some encounters had been.

"You used too much magic," Daenerys observed quietly, her hands gentle as they traced patterns across skin that still showed faint traces of enhancement spells. "I could see it in your eyes during the final approach—that look you get when you're pushing beyond safe limits."

Visenya's response was a soft sound that might have been agreement or dismissal, her violet eyes closing as skilled fingers worked at knots of tension that had nothing to do with physical strain. The magical exhaustion was different from mere tiredness—a hollowness that came from channeling forces beyond mortal comprehension.

"Someone had to ensure the siege equipment held," she murmured, leaning into Daenerys's touch with the unconscious hunger of someone who rarely allowed herself to show vulnerability. "The wards were more complex than I anticipated."

It was an admission that revealed more than tactical assessment—Visenya pushed herself harder than anyone because she believed her strength was what kept the other two safe. The responsibility of being the most experienced, the most magically gifted, the one others looked to for guidance in moments of crisis.

But leadership was a burden as much as a privilege, and even dragons needed care.

Daenerys moved to Lyarra next, her approach different but equally attentive as she began the systematic removal of armor that had protected her northern queen through the day's violence. Each piece revealed new evidence of how close death had come—scratches where blades had found gaps, dents where impacts had been absorbed by steel and leather.

"This one's deep," she said quietly, examining a cut along Lyarra's forearm that had bled through her mail sleeve. "You should have mentioned it."

"Didn't notice during the fighting," Lyarra replied honestly, her voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who had spent hours in mortal combat. "Adrenaline, I suppose. There was always another enemy to face."

The wound was clean but would need attention—a reminder that even Valyrian steel and superior training couldn't prevent all injury in the chaos of urban warfare. Daenerys found supplies in the chamber's amenities, her touch gentle as she cleaned and bound the cut with the competence of someone who had tended battlefield injuries before.

"Both of you," she said as she worked, "need to remember that you're not invincible. I know you fight for me, for our cause, but I need you alive more than I need any city conquered."

The words carried weight beyond mere sentiment—they were queens whose deaths would reshape the political landscape of two continents. But they were also lovers whose loss would destroy something that had become the foundation of all their achievements.

Visenya watched from where she sat on the chamber's large bed, her naked form pale in the lamplight while violet eyes tracked every movement with possessive intensity. The relationship between the three of them was complex beyond simple definition—love and power and mutual dependence woven together in ways that were both beautiful and dangerous.

"You worry too much," she said quietly, though her tone carried affection rather than dismissal. "We've conquered half of Essos together. Today was just another city."

"Today was you and Lyarra throwing yourselves into mortal combat while I watched from safety," Daenerys replied, her hands stilling as emotion threatened to overwhelm practical focus. "Do you know what it's like to see the people you love disappearing into battles where you can't protect them?"

The vulnerability in her voice was raw, honest in a way that only emerged in private moments when the crown could be set aside. Command required projecting strength and confidence, but love demanded truth about fears that kept her awake during the small hours of night.

Lyarra rose slowly, her movements careful as newly cleaned wounds protested the motion. But she needed to close the distance between them, to provide the physical comfort that words alone couldn't offer.

"We came back," she said simply, her arms encircling Daenerys from behind while lips found the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. "We always come back to you."

The embrace drew Visenya from the bed, her own approach carrying the fluid grace that magic and training had made second nature. Together they formed a triangle of warmth and support, bodies pressed close while hands moved in patterns of comfort and possession that spoke to bonds deeper than mere politics.

"I know," Daenerys whispered, leaning back into Lyarra's strength while accepting Visenya's embrace from the front. "But knowing and feeling are different things. Every time you fight, I remember that I could lose you both in an instant."

The confession hung in the air between them, honest in its vulnerability and terrifying in its implications. Love made them stronger in many ways—provided motivation and support that sustained them through trials that might break others. But it also created weaknesses that enemies could exploit, fears that threatened to paralyze when action was needed most.

"Then we'll have to make sure that doesn't happen," Visenya said, her voice carrying the authority that made others believe her promises even when they defied reason. "Simple as that."

It wasn't simple at all, and they all knew it. Every battle risked everything they had built together, every conquest demanded prices that couldn't be calculated in advance. But love, like power, required faith in possibilities that couldn't be guaranteed.

They moved toward the bed together, three forms seeking warmth and comfort in the aftermath of violence. Outside their windows, Meereen settled into its first night of freedom in centuries, while dragons and dire wolves maintained watch over queens who had learned that conquest was easier than the vulnerability that came with having something worth protecting.

 

Chapter 19: XIX

Summary:

A new Meereen, and plans for the future.

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

XIX

~~~~ The Serpent and the Storm ~~~~

 

The morning sun painted Meereen's multicolored pyramids in shades of gold and crimson as the Dragon Queens began their second week of rule over Slaver's Bay's greatest city. From the highest balcony of what had once been the Great Master's pyramid, the transformation below was already visible—scaffolding surrounded damaged buildings, work gangs of former slaves labored alongside free men on public projects, and the harbor bustled with activity that spoke of ambitions reaching far beyond Meereen's walls.

Visenya stood at the balcony's edge, violet eyes cataloguing the progress with the same methodical precision she brought to military planning. At nineteen, she carried herself with authority that made others forget how young she was, silver-streaked hair catching the morning breeze while her posture radiated the kind of confidence that came from never having known defeat.

"The aqueduct repairs are ahead of schedule," Daenerys reported, approaching with scrolls that detailed the previous day's accomplishments. Though only hours younger than her twin, she moved with different energy—where Visenya commanded through presence alone, Daenerys drew people through warmth that made them want to please her. "Clean water should reach the lower districts within the tenday."

Lyarra emerged from the pyramid's interior, her own reports tucked under one arm while the other hand rested casually on Frostbite's pommel. A few days younger than the twins but possessing a northern pragmatism that often made her seem older, she served as the anchor that kept their shared rule grounded in practical reality.

"Ship construction is progressing, but slowly," she said without preamble, settling into the chair that had become her customary spot during their morning briefings. "We've got forty-seven vessels completed or nearly so, but we'll need at least five hundred for the full crossing."

The numbers were sobering—a reminder that their ultimate goal of conquering Westeros remained months away despite their rapid success in taking Meereen. The logistics of moving fifty thousand soldiers plus support personnel across the Narrow Sea required a fleet larger than most kingdoms could assemble.

"Reports from Astapor and Yunkai?" Visenya asked, accepting a cup of wine from the servant who had learned to anticipate their needs without being summoned.

"Both cities are contributing what they can," Daenerys replied, settling into the chair beside Lyarra with movements that spoke of exhaustion carefully hidden. Ruling three cities simultaneously was taking its toll, even distributed among the three of them. "Astapor has twenty ships ready, Yunkai another fifteen. But their shipyards are smaller, and they're dealing with their own reconstruction needs."

The challenge was immense—they needed to maintain control over territory they had already conquered while building for future expansion. Each freed city required ongoing attention to prevent the kind of chaos that invited counter-revolution, but focusing too much on governance meant delays in their Westeros preparations.

"The auxiliary training is showing improvement," Lyarra added, consulting her own notes. "Grey Worm's new formations are adapting well to anti-cavalry tactics. The mixed units with crossbows and slings positioned inside spear squares are proving effective against mounted charges."

It was necessary adaptation—the warfare they would face in Westeros would be different from what they had encountered in Essos. Heavily armored knights and disciplined infantry required different tactics than the slave armies and city militias they had faced so far.

"Good," Visenya said, her voice carrying satisfaction at progress that validated her strategic planning. "We'll need every advantage when we face the Westerosi lords. They've had centuries to perfect their way of war."

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Grey Worm, his scarred face carrying the respectful attention that marked all his interactions with the queens. Behind him came several members of the governing council they had established—former slaves elevated to positions of authority, Meereenese freedmen who had proven their loyalty, and a few pragmatic nobles who had chosen cooperation over resistance.

"Your Graces," Grey Worm said, offering the precise bow that acknowledged their authority without servility. "The morning trials are prepared. Sixteen Great Masters await judgment today."

The trials had become a daily ritual, working through the captured leadership of Meereen's old order with methodical thoroughness. Each proceeding was conducted by the council rather than the queens themselves—a deliberate choice that demonstrated the new government's legitimacy while avoiding the appearance of royal vengeance.

"Evidence prepared?" Lyarra asked, her northern sense of justice demanding proper procedure even for those whose guilt was obvious.

"Witnesses ready, documents compiled," replied Mezzara, a former bed slave who had proven to possess sharp intelligence and administrative skill. Her elevation to the council had sent shockwaves through what remained of Meereen's old elite, but her competence had quickly silenced most criticism. "The charges include slave trading, murder of children, and conspiracy against the new order."

The last category covered those who had participated in planning the crucified children that marked the road to Meereen—a crime that had hardened hearts throughout the Dragon's Host and made mercy politically impossible.

"Justice, not vengeance," Daenerys said quietly, the words carrying weight beyond their simplicity. "Let the evidence speak, let the verdicts be fair, and let the executions be clean."

It was Lyarra who had insisted on the last point, drawing on Stark tradition that demanded those who passed death sentences be willing to carry them out personally. The principle had been adapted to their current situation—council members who voted for execution were required to wield the blade themselves, ensuring that death was not given lightly.

"I'll observe today's proceedings," Visenya announced, rising from her chair with fluid grace. "These trials establish precedent for how we handle justice throughout our territory."

The dynamic between the three queens remained complex in ways that confused outside observers. Publicly, they presented a united front of shared authority, but privately there were hierarchies and dependencies that spoke to relationships deeper than mere political alliance.

Visenya's age advantage was measured in hours rather than years, but her role as protector and guide had been established from childhood. When difficult decisions arose, both Daenerys and Lyarra turned to her first—not because she outranked them, but because her strength had become the foundation upon which their shared rule was built.

"The harbor master wants to discuss dock expansion," Daenerys said, consulting her schedule. "And we have three separate delegations from Volantis requesting audiences."

"Volantis can wait," Lyarra replied with northern bluntness. "The harbor expansion matters more for our shipbuilding timeline."

It was the kind of practical decision-making that had kept their conquest moving forward while other would-be conquerors bogged down in diplomatic niceties. They had learned to prioritize ruthlessly, focusing on objectives that advanced their ultimate goal while delegating or delaying everything else.

The morning dissolved into the complex choreography of shared rule—three queens moving through different aspects of governance while maintaining coordination that seemed effortless to outside observers. Visenya handled military affairs and the magical enhancements that were becoming crucial to their infrastructure projects. Daenerys managed political relationships and the delicate process of integrating former slaves into positions of authority. Lyarra coordinated logistics and the vast supply requirements that would support their eventual invasion.

But underneath the efficient collaboration lay emotional currents that were far more complex than mere political partnership. When Visenya made decisions, both younger queens accepted them without question—not because they lacked their own authority, but because trust ran deeper than mere professional respect.

"The council chamber is ready, Your Grace," Grey Worm reported, returning to escort Visenya to the trials that would determine the fate of sixteen more representatives of Meereen's old order.

As she departed, the dynamic between the remaining queens shifted subtly—without Visenya's presence to anchor them, both Daenerys and Lyarra seemed slightly adrift, their partnership strong but lacking the gravitational center that made their triangle stable.

"She pushes herself too hard," Daenerys observed, watching her twin disappear into the pyramid's corridors. "The magical work is exhausting, but she won't admit it."

"Northern stubbornness," Lyarra replied, though affection softened the criticism. "She thinks showing weakness means the rest of us will break."

It was a dynamic that worked in practice but would puzzle political observers for generations to come—three queens of equal rank whose relationship was built on interdependence rather than competition, with hierarchies that shifted based on situation and need rather than formal protocol.

Below them, Meereen continued its transformation from slave city to something unprecedented in human history. The sounds of construction mixed with voices speaking in dozens of languages, while in the harbor the skeleton of their invasion fleet took shape one plank at a time.

The price of crowns was measured not just in blood and gold, but in the endless weight of decisions that affected thousands of lives. And somewhere in the growing fleet, the future of two continents was being hammered into shape by hands that had only recently been freed from chains.

 

~~

 

The audience chamber had been transformed since their conquest, its atmosphere now speaking to power that served rather than enslaved. Where once the grotesque harpy throne had dominated the space—all twisted bronze and cruel angles designed to intimidate—now stood something altogether different. The monstrosity had been broken apart and fed to forges, its metal repurposed for weapons that would serve liberation rather than oppression.

The new throne was a study in deliberate balance—large enough to accommodate three rulers without crowding, comfortable for individual use without seeming oversized, crafted with sufficient artistry to command respect while avoiding the ostentatious excess that had marked the old regime. Dark wood inlaid with silver, simple but elegant, speaking to authority that came from competence rather than inherited cruelty.

Evening light filtered through the chamber's tall windows, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch toward the moment of confrontation that could no longer be avoided. The three queens had taken their positions—not on the throne itself, but standing before it in a formation that presented unified authority while allowing each to speak as individuals.

Ser Jorah Mormont entered with the careful dignity of a man who suspected his fate had already been decided, his weathered face showing traces of the anxiety he struggled to conceal. Behind him came Ser Barristan Selmy, the old knight's presence serving as both witness and subtle reminder of the loyalty that Jorah had failed to demonstrate.

The Queensguard completed the chamber's occupants—three Unsullied whose bronze spears and disciplined silence spoke to professional competence, six freedmen whose presence demonstrated the new order's commitment to elevating those who had proven their worth. All nine guards understood they were witnessing something that would shape the future of their service.

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys began, her voice carrying the formal tone that marked official proceedings rather than casual conversation. "You have served us faithfully since we fled Pentos. Your sword has protected us through dangers that might have destroyed less committed men."

The words carried acknowledgment but not warmth, setting a tone that suggested gratitude without forgiveness. Jorah's relief at this opening was visible, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he prepared to hear what he hoped would be clemency.

"But we have learned things," Visenya continued, her violet eyes fixed on the aging knight with predatory intensity. "Things that cast your service in different light."

"Ser Barristan has informed us of your... correspondence with King's Landing," Lyarra added, her northern directness cutting through diplomatic phrasing to expose the heart of their concerns. "Specifically, your reports to the Spider about our movements, our plans, our vulnerabilities."

The accusation hung in the air like smoke from dragonfire, impossible to ignore and deadly in its implications. Jorah's face went through several expressions—surprise poorly feigned, followed by calculation, then settling into the resigned dignity of someone who understood that denials would only make things worse.

"I was young and foolish," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of years spent regretting choices that had shaped everything that followed. "The letters... yes, they existed. But they stopped long ago, Your Grace. Before Astapor, before you became the queens you are today."

"When?" Visenya's question was sharp as Valyrian steel, demanding precision rather than vague admissions.

"Qarth," Jorah replied, meeting her gaze with the steadiness of someone telling truth. "The last letter was sent from Qarth. After that, nothing. I swear it on my father's honor."

"Your father's honor," Lyarra repeated, her voice carrying undertones that suggested she found the oath insufficient. "The same honor that led him to take the black rather than watch his son shame the family name further?"

The words hit like physical blows, but Jorah weathered them with the stoicism of someone accustomed to carrying shame. "I have made mistakes. Terrible mistakes. But everything I have done since joining your service has been in your interest, not Varys's."

"Everything?" Daenerys's voice carried dangerous edge. "Including watching us, cataloguing our habits, learning our weaknesses? Including positioning yourself to be our most trusted advisor while reporting to our enemies?"

"I stopped!" Jorah's voice rose slightly, desperation beginning to crack his careful composure. "When I saw what you truly were, what you could become, I stopped. The Spider received nothing from me after Qarth."

"Because by then you had learned to love what you were spying on?" Visenya's question was delivered with the kind of cold precision that could cut bone. "How convenient that your loyalty emerged only after you had gathered months of intelligence."

Ser Barristan stood silent throughout the exchange, his weathered face showing the professional neutrality of someone who understood that this moment belonged to others. The Queensguard maintained their positions with similar discipline, witnesses to royal justice but not participants in its deliberation.

"I have bled for you," Jorah continued, his voice carrying the intensity of someone fighting for his life. "I have fought beside you, protected you, counsel you when others would have led you astray. Doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that prove where my true loyalty lies?"

"It proves you're capable of serving when it suits your interests," Lyarra replied bluntly. "It doesn't erase the fact that you began this relationship as a spy and continued it until your feelings made treachery personally uncomfortable."

The northern queen had never fully trusted the aging knight, their relationship complicated by the fact that she had joined their group only after fleeing the Red Wedding. By then, Jorah was already established as Daenerys's protector, but Lyarra had learned of his past as a slaver—a revelation that colored every subsequent interaction.

"I changed," Jorah said, his voice carrying desperate sincerity. "People can change, Your Graces. You of all people should understand that. You've built your rule on the principle that past mistakes don't define future worth."

"Past mistakes, yes," Visenya agreed, her tone carrying the kind of reasonableness that made her words more cutting. "But ongoing deception? Active betrayal? Those aren't mistakes, Ser Jorah. Those are choices."

The distinction was crucial, and Jorah seemed to understand that his carefully prepared defenses were crumbling against logic that brooked no compromise. His weathered hands clenched and unclenched as he struggled with the knowledge that his service might not be enough to earn forgiveness.

"I love her," he said suddenly, the words bursting forth with the desperation of someone who had exhausted rational arguments. "I love Daenerys with everything I am. Everything I have done, every choice I have made since joining you, has been to keep her safe."

The confession hung in the air like a challenge, raw emotion laid bare in a forum designed for political judgment. But if Jorah expected the admission to soften their stance, he had fundamentally misunderstood the people he claimed to love and serve.

Visenya's voice, when it came, carried the heat of dragonfire barely contained within human throat. "Love?"

The single word cut through Jorah's declaration like a blade through silk, reducing his passionate confession to something pathetic and presumptuous. Violet eyes that had seen cities burn fixed on him with intensity that made lesser men take involuntary steps backward.

"You think watching her like prey makes you devoted?" Visenya continued, her voice dropping to levels that somehow made it more rather than less dangerous. "You think cataloguing her habits for foreign spymasters demonstrates affection? You think positioning yourself as indispensable while betraying her trust is some form of courtship?"

Each question struck with precision designed to expose the fundamental selfishness underlying Jorah's claimed devotion. He had confused possession with protection, obsession with love, and his service had been tainted from the beginning by motivations that served his needs rather than theirs.

"I protected—" Jorah began, but Visenya's raised hand silenced him with authority that brooked no interruption.

"You protected your investment," she said with finality that ended debate. "You served your own desires while convincing yourself it was devotion. And now you expect gratitude for abandoning treachery only when it became personally inconvenient."

The judgment was delivered with the kind of controlled fury that made Visenya more dangerous than when she simply lost her temper. This was not rage—this was justice deliberated and delivered with surgical precision.

She turned toward her partners, her movement indicating that Jorah's opportunity to speak had ended. "Daenerys? Lyarra? Your thoughts?"

The shift was subtle but significant—from unified authority delivering judgment to individual voices contributing to collective decision. It demonstrated the complex relationship between the three queens while ensuring that this choice belonged to all of them.

Daenerys spoke first, her voice carrying sadness rather than anger. "You say you love me, but love doesn't begin with deception. It doesn't continue through betrayal. And it doesn't excuse itself by claiming good intentions."

Lyarra's contribution was more direct. "You're a security risk we can no longer afford to ignore. Whatever your current feelings, your past actions make trust impossible."

The unanimity was clear, and Jorah's face showed he understood that no appeal would change their verdict. His shoulders sagged as the weight of consequence finally settled upon him.

"Exile," Visenya announced, her voice carrying the finality of royal decree. "You have one day to gather your possessions and leave Meereen. If you are found within our territory after tomorrow's sunset, you will be executed for treason against the crown."

The sentence was delivered without cruelty but without mercy, appropriate punishment for someone whose service had been compromised from its beginning. Jorah nodded slowly, the gesture carrying acceptance of judgment he had always known might come.

"Your Graces," he said quietly, offering a final bow that carried dignity despite defeat. "I hope... I hope history proves that my service, however flawed, contributed something to your success."

With that, he turned and departed, leaving behind three queens who had learned that loyalty, like love, required more than mere declaration to prove its worth.

 

~~

 

The bathing chamber had been one of Visenya's first magical renovations upon claiming the pyramid, transforming what had been a standard noble's luxury into something that served dragon blood's unique needs. The pool sunk into the marble floor was large enough for all three queens, but more importantly, heated to temperatures that would scald ordinary flesh. Steam rose from water that maintained the perfect heat through enchantments woven into the stone itself.

Visenya lay with her back against the pool's edge, silver-streaked hair floating around her shoulders while violet eyes remained closed in the first genuine relaxation she had allowed herself all day. The water lapped gently against skin flushed pink from heat that would have been agony to anyone lacking Targaryen heritage, but to her felt like the embrace of a particularly affectionate dragon.

The chamber's atmosphere was thick with more than just steam—the weight of decisions made and consequences accepted, the constant pressure of ruling three cities while preparing to conquer a fourth continent. Every muscle in her body carried tension from hours spent maintaining the composure required of queens, and only here, in water hot enough to melt steel, could she finally allow that burden to ease.

Near the chamber's far wall, all five dragons had arranged themselves in a living nest of scales and warmth. Drakarion's black bulk served as the foundation, his crimson highlights catching the lamplight while amber eyes tracked his mothers with protective attention. Sylveris had draped herself across his back, snow-white scales with black spotting creating patterns that spoke to ancient intelligence watching over those she loved.

Nira curled against Drakarion's side, her frost-pale scales shimmering in the chamber's heat while violet eyes—so like Lyarra's own—remained fixed on Visenya with the devoted attention of a creature who understood exactly how much her mother carried. The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx completed the arrangement, their ivory-gold and green-bronze forms intertwined in peaceful sleep that spoke to the security their mothers' presence provided.

The sound of footsteps on marble announced the arrival of the other two queens, though Visenya didn't open her eyes to acknowledge them. Trust ran deep enough that she could identify their approach through sound alone—Daenerys's lighter step carrying unconscious grace, Lyarra's slightly heavier tread speaking to northern practicality even in bare feet.

"How long have you been soaking?" Daenerys asked quietly, her voice carrying concern that went beyond mere curiosity.

"Long enough," Visenya replied without opening her eyes, though the slight smile that curved her lips suggested relief at their presence. "The water helps. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me sane is remembering what it felt like to be warm."

It was an admission that revealed more than tactical assessment—Victoria's memories of cold and hunger and sleeping rough, experiences that made heated baths feel like luxury beyond imagining. Daenerys and Lyarra exchanged glances that spoke to understanding shared only by those who loved someone carrying invisible wounds.

The soft rustle of fabric indicated robes being discarded, followed by the gentle splash of bodies entering water that would have burned anyone else. Daenerys settled on Visenya's right side while Lyarra claimed the left, their positions creating a triangle of warmth and trust that allowed the older queen to finally release the last of her carefully maintained control.

"Let us," Lyarra said simply, her hands finding the knots of tension in Visenya's shoulders with the precision of someone who had learned exactly where stress accumulated in her lover's body. "You don't have to carry everything alone."

The words struck deeper than mere physical comfort, addressing the psychological weight that came with being the one others turned to for guidance and protection. Visenya's role as the strongest, the most experienced, the one with magical abilities that could solve problems others couldn't even understand—it was a burden that grew heavier with each decision that affected thousands of lives.

"The Volantene delegation wants concessions we can't afford," Visenya murmured, finally allowing herself to voice concerns that had been eating at her concentration all day. "The shipbuilders need materials we don't have. Three more Great Masters were found guilty today, and the families are threatening retaliation."

"And you solved all of it," Daenerys pointed out, her fingers working through silver-streaked hair with the kind of gentle attention that spoke to devotion rather than mere duty. "The delegation got counter-offers that serve our interests. The shipbuilders have new supply contracts. The families learned that threatening queens carries consequences."

The litany of successful decisions was delivered with conviction designed to remind Visenya that her competence was absolute, her judgment sound, her leadership effective. But success, however complete, carried its own weight when measured against the knowledge that failure would doom everyone depending on her strength.

Lyarra's hands worked along the corded muscles of Visenya's neck and shoulders, finding pressure points that released tension accumulated through hours of maintaining royal composure. "You were magnificent during the Jorah confrontation. Cold, controlled, absolutely devastating. I don't think I've ever seen someone dismantled so thoroughly with so few words."

The memory brought its own satisfaction—justice delivered with precision rather than rage, consequence applied with surgical accuracy that left no room for appeal or excuse. Jorah's exile had been necessary, but that didn't make the decision any less draining for someone who understood exactly how much their circle of trust had shrunk.

"He was pathetic," Visenya said, though her voice carried exhaustion rather than anger. "All those years of service, and it came down to confusing obsession with devotion. How do you betray someone you claim to love?"

"By loving the idea of them rather than who they actually are," Daenerys replied, her lips finding the sensitive spot where Visenya's neck met her shoulder. "By serving your own needs while convincing yourself it's sacrifice."

The distinction was important, and Visenya felt some of the day's emotional weight lifting as skilled hands worked tension from muscles that had been held too tight for too long. This was what she needed—not just the physical release of heated water and massage, but the emotional safety of being vulnerable with people who understood exactly what that vulnerability meant.

"Better?" Lyarra asked, her hands shifting to work along Visenya's spine while violet eyes tracked the subtle changes in posture that indicated successful relaxation.

"Much," Visenya admitted, finally opening her eyes to meet the gazes of the women who had become her anchors in a world that demanded constant strength. "I don't know how I managed before you two."

The confession carried weight beyond mere gratitude—acknowledgment that her role as protector and guide required its own protection, that even the strongest needed places where masks could be set aside and genuine need expressed without shame.

Daenerys shifted closer, her body pressing against Visenya's side while hands began exploration that spoke to different kinds of comfort. "You don't have to manage alone anymore. We're here, we're staying, and we're not going anywhere."

The promise was sealed with a kiss that tasted of steam and trust, gentle pressure that spoke to devotion rather than mere desire. But desire was there too, building slowly as skilled touches mapped familiar territory with renewed appreciation for the strength that protected them all.

"Let us worship you tonight," Lyarra murmured against Visenya's ear, her breath sending shivers through water-warmed skin. "Let us show you exactly how precious you are to us."

The offer was irresistible—not just the physical pleasure, but the emotional surrender that came with accepting devotion from those whose love had no conditions beyond continued existence. Visenya nodded, settling back against the pool's edge while allowing herself to simply receive rather than give.

The heated water lapped against skin as Daenerys and Lyarra positioned themselves with deliberate reverence, violet eyes dark with desire as they gazed upon the woman who carried so much for them both. Visenya's body was a map of strength and scars, lean muscle sculpted by years of swordwork and magic, pale skin flushed pink from dragonhot water that would have scalded anyone else.

"Every part of you is perfect," Daenerys whispered, her hands beginning at Visenya's shoulders with touches so gentle they barely disturbed the water's surface. "Strong enough to protect us, beautiful enough to make us ache with wanting."

Lyarra's approach was different but equally reverent, her northern directness manifesting as hands that claimed territory with possessive certainty. "You give us everything," she murmured against the curve of Visenya's neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Tonight we give back."

Their worship began slowly, almost ceremonially, with touches that mapped familiar territory as if seeing it for the first time. Four hands moved in coordination learned through months of shared intimacy, each woman knowing exactly which caresses would make their lover's breath catch, which pressures would draw soft sounds of pleasure.

Daenerys claimed Visenya's mouth first, the kiss deep and thorough while silver-gold hair floated around them like a waterfall. Her tongue traced patterns that spoke of devotion beyond mere lust, tasting steam and desire while small sounds of appreciation escaped her throat.

Meanwhile, Lyarra's attention focused on the elegant line of Visenya's throat, lips and teeth working in combination that left marks of possession along pale skin. Each bite was followed by soothing kisses, creating patterns of sensation that had Visenya arching despite her intention to simply receive.

"So responsive," Lyarra breathed against her collarbone, violet eyes bright with satisfaction as she discovered a particularly sensitive spot. "Our fierce dragon queen, melting under our touch."

The words sent heat spiraling through Visenya's body that had nothing to do with the water's temperature. Being worshipped like this—treated as precious rather than just powerful—satisfied needs she rarely acknowledged even to herself.

Daenerys's hands found Visenya's breasts, fingers tracing circles around nipples that hardened immediately under the attention. "I love how you respond to us," she whispered, leaning down to replace her fingers with her mouth. "Love watching you let go of all that control."

The sensation of warm lips closing around sensitive flesh drew a gasp from Visenya's throat, her back arching involuntarily as pleasure shot straight to her core. The contrast between the hot water and even hotter mouths created layers of sensation that made thinking impossible.

Lyarra's hands had begun exploring lower, tracing the curve of ribs and the flat plane of stomach with reverent attention. "Every scar tells a story of protecting others," she murmured, lips following the path her fingers had traced. "Every mark proof of how strong you are."

The psychological impact was as intense as the physical—being seen not just as desirable but as worthy of this kind of devoted attention. Visenya's carefully maintained composure cracked further with each whispered endearment, each gentle bite that claimed her skin.

"Please," she whispered, the word barely audible but carrying weight beyond its simplicity. Asking for anything didn't come easily to someone accustomed to providing for others, but here, surrounded by water and love, she could finally voice her needs.

"Tell us what you want," Daenerys commanded softly, her mouth moving to claim Visenya's other breast while violet eyes gazed up with adoration that bordered on worship. "Tonight is about your pleasure, your needs."

The invitation to be selfish was intoxicating in ways that went beyond mere arousal. "Touch me," Visenya gasped, her hips shifting restlessly in the heated water. "Both of you. I need to feel owned by you."

The admission sent visible pleasure through both younger women, their devotion manifesting as increased intensity in their ministrations. Lyarra's hand slipped between Visenya's thighs, finding slick heat that had nothing to do with the surrounding water.

"Already so wet for us," she observed with satisfaction, fingers exploring folds that were swollen with need. "Our perfect queen, so ready to be claimed."

Daenerys shifted position to allow better access, her own hands claiming Visenya's face while their mouths met in kisses that grew increasingly desperate. The combination of external worship and intimate touching created feedback loops of sensation that had Visenya trembling despite the water's support.

"More," she demanded breathlessly, her usual control fragmenting under the assault of pleasure and devotion. "I need more."

Lyarra responded by adding a second finger, the stretch sending sparks of sensation through Visenya's body while her thumb found the sensitive bundle of nerves that made coherent thought impossible. The rhythm she established was slow and deliberate, designed to build tension rather than provide quick release.

Meanwhile, Daenerys had claimed one of Visenya's hands, guiding it to her own breast with shameless hunger. "Touch me while we worship you," she whispered against kiss-swollen lips. "Feel how much we need you."

The request sent fresh heat through Visenya's system, her fingers automatically responding to map the curves and valleys of Daenerys's body even as her own pleasure mounted. Being needed as much as she needed them created perfect symmetry that made their triangle complete.

"So beautiful when you let go," Lyarra murmured, adding a third finger that had Visenya crying out in pleasure-pain that bordered on transcendent. "Our strength, our anchor, our everything."

The words shattered the last of Visenya's carefully maintained control, her climax building with the inevitability of dragonfire seeking release. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment fed the growing conflagration until she was trembling on the edge of explosion.

"Come for us," Daenerys commanded, her voice carrying authority that brooked no resistance. "Show us how good we make you feel."

The permission was all Visenya needed, her release crashing over her with intensity that temporarily whited out everything beyond the immediate reality of pleasure given and received. Her body convulsed around Lyarra's fingers while cries of satisfaction echoed off the chamber's walls.

In the aftermath, floating in water that maintained perfect warmth while gentle hands provided soothing touches, Visenya finally understood what it meant to be completely cherished. The dragons' rumbling approval provided soundtrack to recovery that left her feeling more grounded than she had in weeks.

"Better?" Lyarra asked quietly, her fingers still moving in gentle patterns that extended the pleasure without demanding new response.

"Perfect," Visenya whispered, her voice hoarse with satisfaction and something deeper—gratitude for being loved completely, flaws and strength and need all accepted without reservation.

 

~~

 

The chambers felt smaller with maps spread across every surface, parchment and ink transforming their intimate sanctuary into a command center that spoke to ambitions spanning continents. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, casting silver patterns across charts of Westeros that had been copied and recopied until the coastlines were worn smooth by anxious fingers tracing invasion routes.

Visenya lay on her side, one arm supporting her head while the other traced supply lines across the Narrow Sea. Her silver-streaked hair fell like a curtain around her face, but her violet eyes remained sharp with calculation despite the hour. The warm glow of oil lamps painted her naked form in gold and shadow, creating a contrast between vulnerable flesh and the steel-sharp mind that never truly rested.

"The math doesn't work," she said quietly, her finger tapping against Duskendale's position on the eastern coast. "Five hundred ships minimum for the full host, but we'll have maybe three hundred ready in the next six months. Eight months if we're lucky."

Daenerys had positioned herself across from her twin, knees drawn up to provide a surface for the smaller maps detailing potential landing sites. Her own nakedness seemed almost incidental to the fierce concentration written across her features, violet eyes bright with the kind of intensity that had broken slave cities across Essos.

"Eight months gives our enemies time to prepare," she observed, reaching across to adjust a wooden marker representing their estimated forces. "Every tenday we delay is another opportunity for them to coordinate defenses, gather allies, maybe even attempt to strike at us here."

The third voice came from Lyarra, who had claimed the space between them, her northern pragmatism serving as anchor for plans that threatened to spiral into impossibility. Maps lay scattered across her legs and torso, turning her into a living table for the conquest of two continents.

"Unless we don't wait," she said, her finger finding the route from Meereen to Dragonstone with unerring precision. "Two waves. Half the host with half the ships, establish a foothold, then the ships return for the rest."

The suggestion hung in the air like smoke from dragonfire, simultaneously brilliant and terrifying in its implications. Around the bed, their creatures had arranged themselves in protective positions—Drakarion's black bulk near the window, Sylveris curled against the wall where she could monitor approaches, Nira pressed close to the bed's edge with violet eyes tracking every movement. The twins Aenryx and Vaelyx had claimed space near the door, while Ghost lay across the chamber's threshold like a living barrier.

All of them could sense the tension radiating from their mothers, the weight of decisions that would reshape the known world.

"It's possible," Visenya admitted slowly, her strategic mind already working through logistics and timelines. "The first wave takes the veteran legions, establishes a secure port, gathers intelligence while the second wave completes preparation."

"Dangerous," Daenerys countered, though her tone carried consideration rather than dismissal. "Half our strength isolated across the Narrow Sea, no reinforcement possible if things go wrong."

"Everything about this is dangerous," Lyarra replied with northern bluntness. "The question is whether we can afford to wait for perfect conditions that might never come."

The conversation continued in the measured tones of professional assessment, but underneath ran currents that had nothing to do with military strategy. The three queens had been inseparable since fleeing Pentos three years prior, their shared trauma and interdependence creating bonds that went far deeper than mere political alliance.

The prospect of separation—even temporary, even tactical—triggered anxieties that none of them wanted to acknowledge aloud.

"Communication would be limited," Visenya said, her voice carefully neutral. "I could attempt something with the magic, but without established anchor points the range would be uncertain at best."

The admission carried weight beyond mere technical limitation. Without magical communication, the split forces would be operating blindly, unable to coordinate beyond predetermined plans that might become obsolete within days of implementation.

"Signal fires from Dragonstone," Lyarra suggested, though her own tone suggested she recognized the inadequacy. "Ships carrying messages between waves. It's not perfect, but it's workable."

"Workable if nothing goes wrong," Daenerys observed. "If storms don't scatter the fleet, if we're not forced to change landing sites, if the enemy doesn't interfere with our couriers."

The list of potential complications was endless, each one carrying the possibility of disaster that could doom half their forces to isolation or destruction. But the alternative—waiting for perfect conditions while their enemies prepared—carried its own risks that might prove equally fatal.

"Which legions for the first wave?" Visenya asked, accepting the premise while working through implementation details. "The veterans obviously, but what support elements?"

"First and Second Unsullied," Lyarra replied immediately. "The veteran auxiliary cohorts—Sable Talons, Broken Chains, Iron Song. Light cavalry for reconnaissance. Enough siege equipment to take a port but not so much we can't move quickly."

"Twenty-five thousand troops," Daenerys calculated, her fingers moving across unit markers with practiced efficiency. "Large enough to establish a real foothold, small enough to transport with available ships."

The numbers made sense tactically, but they also meant leaving twenty-five thousand people across an ocean with limited support and uncertain communication. Every face in those legions was someone they had freed, trained, led through victories that had seemed impossible until they achieved them.

"Command structure," Visenya said quietly, and suddenly the conversation's real weight became clear.

For the first time since Pentos, they were discussing splitting up. Not just their armies or their fleets, but themselves—the triangle of leadership that had become the foundation of everything they had built together.

The silence that followed was heavy with implications none of them wanted to voice. Tactically, the first wave needed their strongest leaders, their most experienced commanders, their most inspiring presence. Emotionally, the thought of separation felt like tearing away pieces of themselves.

"I should go," Visenya said finally, her voice carrying the authority that made others believe her decisions even when they defied reason. "The magic will be needed for siege work, for enhancement, for dealing with whatever defenses we encounter."

"The dragons need to be split as well," Daenerys added, though the words came out strained. "Three with the first wave, two with the second. Maximum tactical flexibility."

"That means..." Lyarra began, then stopped as the full implications became clear.

They were talking about separating not just their armies but their dragons, their magical capabilities, their emotional support system. Everything that had made them stronger together would be divided across an ocean, with no guarantee that reunification would be possible.

"We don't have to decide tonight," Daenerys said quickly, recognizing the anxiety that was building in all three of them. "The strategic framework is sound, but the specific assignments can wait until we know exactly when the ships will be ready."

But even as she spoke, they all understood that the decision was already made. The logic was inexorable—someone had to lead the first wave, someone had to coordinate the second, and their personal feelings couldn't be allowed to override tactical necessity.

Visenya reached across the scattered maps to take Lyarra's hand, her fingers intertwining with calloused northern digits while her other hand found Daenerys's wrist. The contact was electric in ways that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the desperate need for connection before separation.

"Whatever we decide," she said quietly, "we decide together. No one goes anywhere alone unless all three of us agree it's necessary."

The promise was both reassurance and acknowledgment of how much they needed each other, how much their strength depended on unity that went beyond mere tactical coordination. Around them, their creatures sensed the emotional undercurrents and moved closer—Nira pressing against the bed while Ghost padded over to rest his massive head near Lyarra's shoulder.

"Together," Daenerys agreed, her voice carrying the same fierce determination that had freed three cities. "Always together, even when we're apart."

The words were meant as comfort, but they also highlighted the contradiction they were facing—how to remain united while splitting up, how to maintain the bonds that made them stronger while accepting separation that tactical necessity demanded.

"Come here," Lyarra said softly, setting aside the maps that had been resting across her legs and opening her arms to gather both queens against her.

What followed wasn't sexual but was intensely intimate—three naked bodies seeking comfort and reassurance in physical closeness that would soon be impossible. Hands stroking hair, lips pressing gentle kisses to shoulders and throats, the kind of desperate affection that came from knowing such moments were becoming precious.

The dragons settled more comfortably around the bed, their ancient intelligence understanding that their mothers needed protection during vulnerability. Outside the windows, Meereen slept under the rule of queens who were learning that every victory carried the seeds of new challenges, every conquest demanded prices that couldn't be calculated in advance.

In the morning, they would return to being the Dragon Queens whose decisions affected thousands of lives across multiple continents. But tonight, surrounded by maps and creatures and each other, they were simply three young women who had found something precious in each other and were terrified of losing it to the demands of power and ambition.

The invasion of Westeros would happen—that was no longer a question. But the cost of that conquest, measured not in gold or lives but in the bonds that held them together, remained to be calculated.

Notes:

I have decided to create a discord/rework my old server that never saw use into something as a central point for my writings if anyone is interested. Will be my wild rambles, WIP's, sneak peeks and a place for other writers to come and share their thoughts and works - link here