STORMBORN || HOTD

Shadows Of The Past

The name Viserys haunted her even now.

As a child, Daenerys laughed quietly, bitterly, at the irony of it all. Viserys. Her father’s name in this life was Viserys, just like the brother who had once tormented her, who had sold her like a trinket for an army, his cold eyes gleaming with ambition. That brother had been the first to show her what love poisoned by greed looked like. Now, she was forced to hear the name daily, spoken with respect, love even, from the lips of servants and courtiers alike. It felt like a cruel joke.

She was barely five years old, yet her mind bore the scars and memories of another lifetime—a life filled with fire, blood, and betrayal. When she had been Daenerys Stormborn, Khaleesi of the Great Grass sea, the Unburnt. But here, in this new life, those titles were nothing more than whispers in the dark, shadows that clouded her vision as she tried to make sense of this strange rebirth.

Her mind raced as the septa droned on about the Seven, about duty, piety, and loyalty to the gods. Daenerys’s small fingers idly traced the edges of the cold stone table before her. She barely heard the woman's voice anymore. The gods, the prayers, the duty—none of it mattered. Her thoughts were consumed by memories from another time, from another world.

The pieces clicked together slowly, like shattered glass being reassembled into a jagged mosaic. She remembered hearing about it before, The Dance Of The Dragons, the civil war that had torn her family apart. And now, she was back, right in the middle of it. The past was repeating itself, as though fate had thrust her back into the very heart of the tragedy. She wasn’t just a child of dragons. She was their history, their rise, and their fall. And it chilled her.

Her lessons with the septa were supposed to prepare her for a future as a princess of the realm, but Daenerys knew better. She didn’t need their sermons on virtue. She needed fire. She needed strength. She needed a way out. The rigid constraints of the Keep, the endless lessons about gods she didn’t care for, the tight grip of fate closing in around her—these were suffocating. She longed for the open air, for the freedom she once had in Essos, on the back of Drogon, soaring above the world with nothing but the wind and sky around her.

But Drogon was not here.

Her dragon egg had not hatched. A silent, lifeless thing. It sat in her chambers, cold as stone, a reminder of the life that had been ripped from her. She had touched it so many times, willing it to crack, to burst forth with life, with fire. But it remained still. And in that stillness, Daenerys felt the weight of loss. Not just the loss of her dragons, but the loss of everything she had once been.

In the quiet moments, when the septa’s voice faded into the background, her mind would slip back into memories of her first life. Visions of Khal Drogo flashed before her eyes, his dark, fierce gaze, the way he had loved her with a fire she had never known before. He had given her power, not just as a Khaleesi, but as a woman, as Daenerys. And their son, Rhaego, the son who had never taken his first breath. A cruel twist of fate, taking them both from her before she could fully realize her own strength.

Her time in Meereen came rushing back next. Daario Naharis, his roguish smile, his confidence. Another man who had filled her life with passion, who had served her, but in the end, he had taken what he wanted and left, just like the rest. They all took from her. They all wanted something from the Dragon Queen.

But then there was Jon Snow. Or Aegon Targaryen, as she had learned. A bitter pang of sadness stabbed through her as she thought of him—the man who had stolen her heart in a way no other had. She had believed in him. She had trusted him, fought beside him against the Night King. Together, they had saved the world—or so she thought. Arya Stark had delivered the final blow to the Night King, not Jon. Her victory had been stolen, her sense of purpose shattered. And then Jon—her Jon—had driven the dagger into her chest. The ultimate betrayal.

In those moments, as the dagger pierced her skin, she had felt the weight of all her betrayals, all her losses, all her failures. She had trusted Jon. She had loved him. But in the end, he had been no different than the others. They all wanted to take from her, to strip her of her power, her identity, until there was nothing left.

She cursed the day she had returned to Westeros, the day she had left the cities of Essos behind. If she had only stayed, she would have ruled. She would have built something greater, something lasting. But she had returned, and that had been her downfall. Westeros had consumed her, and Jon had been the final blow.

And now, as a child once more, with her mind trapped in a tiny, fragile body, Daenerys felt the full weight of her previous life pressing down on her. It was as if the gods had given her a second chance, only to force her to watch the same tragedy unfold from a new perspective. Her fate was entwined with dragons, with war, with betrayal—and no matter how hard she tried, she could never escape it.

At night, when the Red Keep grew silent, she would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. She thought of Jorah Mormont, of his unwavering loyalty, of the way he had always believed in her, even when she doubted herself. He had loved her, truly, and she had failed him too. She had failed everyone.

Her memories of her death haunted her. She could still feel the coldness of the dagger as it slid into her heart. She remembered the look on Jon’s face, the sorrow, the regret. But sorrow didn’t change the fact that he had killed her.

She cursed him. She cursed the world that had taken everything from her.

And now, here she was again. A child with a dragon egg that refused to hatch. A child trapped in the cycle of history, the blood of dragons running through her veins, carrying the weight of all her past lives.

As she reached her fifth year, she knew one thing for certain: this life would be no different.