STORMBORN || HOTD

A New Identity, Old Hatreds

Daenerys had always been good at adapting, but this—this was something else entirely. She was no longer the Khaleesi, no longer the Unburnt Mother of Dragons. Here, in this new life, she was a princess of the realm, a twin to Aegon II, a child of the greens in the Targaryen civil war. And how she loathed the name Aegon.

Aegon, the lover who had betrayed her in another life. The man who had loved her and then driven a dagger into her heart. Jon Snow, they had called him. She scoffed bitterly at the thought. The rightful king, some said. Her rightful king. She had followed him into the darkness, into the North, to face the Night King. But in the end, it was Arya Stark who had dealt the final blow, not Jon. And in the end, it had been Jon who had dealt her final blow.

Now, her new brother bore the same cursed name—Aegon. The irony wasn’t lost on her. It made her sick every time she looked at him. He was a child, yes, but he carried that name, and it was enough to twist the knife of her memories a little deeper.

Her mother in this life was Alicent Hightower, the second wife of King Viserys Targaryen. Daenerys had never known her mother in her first life, and now she wasn’t sure what to make of Alicent. She was kind, in her way, but Daenerys could see the way her mother was wrapped up in her own schemes and ambitions. Alicent had always favored Aegon, and Daenerys was expected to follow suit, to be the dutiful sister who would support her brother’s claim to the throne.

But Daenerys had her own thoughts on the matter.

Then there was her half-sister, Rhaenyra. In her past life, Daenerys had respected her—she had been a queen, after all, and queens commanded respect. But here, in this new life, the dynamic was far more complicated. Rhaenyra was...distant. At times, she showed some softness toward Daenerys, treating her with more warmth than she did Aegon. But something about Rhaenyra unsettled Daenerys.

Perhaps it was because Rhaenyra was not the queen she had once admired. Perhaps it was the secrets that Daenerys could see clearly, secrets that no one else seemed to acknowledge. Rhaenyra’s firstborn son, Viserys Velaryon, was not a true Velaryon. That much was obvious to Daenerys. He didn’t look like Laenor Velaryon at all—he lacked the dark skin, the silver curls, the unmistakable features of House Velaryon. Instead, the boy had brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that reminded Daenerys far too much of Ser Harwin Strong. It was a quiet scandal that no one spoke of openly, but Daenerys knew the truth.

Bastards, she thought with disdain. She had lived her life surrounded by lies and treachery, and now, in this life, it seemed nothing had changed. Rhaenyra, the crown princess, the heir to the throne, was producing bastards, and yet no one dared to say a word.

Daenerys pitied Laenor, at first, until she understood the truth. By the time she was four, she realized that Ser Laenor was not the man she had once thought. He was gay, his heart belonging to other men, and Daenerys couldn’t find it in herself to blame him. But still, the sight of Rhaenyra with her bastard children made Daenerys uneasy. She was watching the crown princess mangle her own identity, and for what? A fleeting love? A lust for power?

Her father, Viserys, was a kind man, but a foolish one. Daenerys saw it plainly. He was easily manipulated, especially by his hand, Ser Otto Hightower. Otto had been pushing his own daughter, Alicent, into Viserys’s bed, ensuring that the Hightower family would be forever entwined with the Targaryen line. And it worked. Daenerys could see the way her mother manipulated her father with soft words and worried glances, playing her part perfectly.

But the person who stood out most in Daenerys’s new life was her uncle, Vaelor Targaryen. Vaelor was everything a dragonlord should be. He was strong, decisive, and had more of a claim to the throne than anyone else. As the eldest son of Prince Aemon, he could have sought the throne for himself. But he never did. He never challenged Viserys openly. Instead, he stayed back, watching, observing the court with a calm that Daenerys admired. He had the heart of a dragon, the soul of a true Targaryen, and she found herself gravitating toward him more and more.

Vaelor never pushed her. He never treated her like the child everyone else saw. He listened, and he spoke to her as if she were an equal. Drogon, she thought, would have liked him.

The bond between Daenerys and Vaelor was one of the few things that made her feel alive in this new life. While Alicent tried to force her into worshipping the Seven Gods of Westeros, Daenerys held firm to her beliefs in the old gods of Valyria, the Fourteen Flames. She was the blood of the dragon. Why would she bow to the gods of the West? That was not who she was, nor who she would ever be.

But no matter how much she tried to adjust to her new identity, one thing gnawed at her constantly—the absence of her dragon. Despite feeling the bond, despite knowing deep in her soul that her dragon existed somewhere in this world, the egg she had been given remained cold, still, lifeless.

Every day, she would touch the egg, willing it to crack open, willing the fire within to ignite. But nothing happened. The emptiness she felt without a dragon was a wound that wouldn’t heal. In her past life, she had Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion—her children, her companions, her strength. Now, she had nothing.

At last, after years of begging her father, King Viserys, to let her explore the dragon pits of King’s Landing and Dragonstone, he relented. He allowed her to go, much to the dismay of Rhaenyra, who protested fiercely. But Viserys, ever the kind-hearted father, gave in to Daenerys’s pleas.

She would find her dragon. She had to.

As they prepared to journey to the pits, Daenerys felt a flicker of hope for the first time in this new life. Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of those ancient pits, her dragon was waiting for her. Perhaps the fire still burned, deep within the heart of the world.