Little Dragon - Game of Thrones

26

"Khalessi," A Dothraki warrior asked the dragon queen as they rode South. "These Westerosi are demanding to use our horses as mules." He sneered.

"Why?" Daenerys asked him, eyebrow raised. She kept her voice firm. If she didn't, she'd likely lose composure.

"Some of the sheep can not move fast enough." He explained.

"The dead are gaining on us quickly." Jorah told her. "We already lost twenty seven men to the undead. Only thirteen bodies could be recovered and burned."

"They are too fast, never sleeping, never eating," His lip curled.

"We're close to the Twins." Daenerys reminded them. "We burn the bridge and keep moving. That should slow them down long enough for us to near King's Landing."

---

Her wings hardly beat as she glided across the land. Ashen rivers turned to sands, sands to harsh rock, and finally sea. The corpse city clung to her hollow body, and thousands of lost souls of Asshai followed her. Some lost to the black river, some wandered too close to Stygai, some consumed by dark magics.

She could still hear it, the beating heart of winter. She knew he could see it too.

Villages cried out with fear as her black bones rattled in the sky. Some peoples fell to their knees in prayer that the gods would save them from whatever cataclysmic event was soon to occur.

The jungles of Sothoryos soon ran under her talons. Strange beasts cried out to her, wyverns followed, basilisks let out shrieks and wails, and even a reptilian race who inhabited the jungle began pursuit. They thought she was a god, built from black stone.

Lyla kept flying.

Her own heart was cold, still, perhaps non-existent. Was there any remnant of who she once was in this cold skeletal form?

She was monstrous.

She was dead.

She was unfeeling.

And yet there was a strange harmony inside her.

Pieces of the puzzle began to fall together. The strange man in her visions, Krohln, the bloodmage who committed an act so cruel it turned him inside out, the shapechanger who followed him from Asshai to Mosscovy, to free the dead hatchling from his cold shell of a body only to curse herself, then banishing the spirit onto a defenseless girl in the far north of Winterfell.

Yes, it was all so clear now.

Who she was.

What she was.

She was the fury of two beings whose chance at a proper life were tarnished. She was the emblem of stolen innocence and safety and calm.

Lyla could feel how the dragon, of which there were so few left, murdered as soon as they could open their eyes, burned with rage, and disappointment in whatever beings, deciding fate for this world and it's inhabitants, could be so pointlessly cruel and uncaring.

Why did she never feel the nurturing comfort of childhood? Wasn't she owed that much? The dragon seethed with anger.

Such rage turned her bones to burning steel, ready to rip and tear and slaughter the cold, unfeeling creatures of the world. To have a sense of justice, it was not something seen very often in Westeros.

And her sense of justice was turned to the cold heart of winter.

Lyla was ready.

The sea turned to rocky outcroppings as she reached the shores of Dorne. Lyla was back home, in Westeros.

The battle had not yet reached Dorne, so southern and warm, so disconnected from the plague marching from the north. Lyla beat her wings faster, racing to reach the familiar sight of her home.

The people of Dorne fled in her wake, but Lyla did not care. They could sense the power of the blazing acidic storm she was directing north.

---

Drogon had become restless. Daenerys could hardly keep him put to defend the caravan traveling south. The burning of the Twins had certainly slowed the horde, but there was still no time for rest. The north was constantly moving, always trudging forward down the King's Road to put pressure on Cersei.

She was beginning to break, it seemed. Cersei was no fool, she knew she had been cornered in her own keep, the Golden Company keeping her trapped in debt so she could not flee, and the massive forces threatening from the north and south held her.

If she surrendered to Daenerys and gave her the throne, the debt would leave her. But Cersei didn't really expect the north to let her leave work her life after what she had done.

The northerners were getting closer and closer, with the army of the undead not far behind.

Now was the time for action.

---

A quick update to show that, yes, I am still alive and yes, I still know where this story is going. Unfortunately, I have lost major interest in GOT. So many of the details I had burned into my brain years ago have faded away. So, I apologize is this story will not be continuing with the same attention to detail as before. Please forgive me.

I will, however, be finishing this story. It will not be my top writing priority, as I have another story that I am much, much, much more invested in.

Please, if you would be so kind, check out my other story In The Flesh, which I am updating regularly :)

This story is not abandoned. This story will be finished. Just... Slowly.

Please be patient with me. I write mainly as a vent for my mental health struggles, so if I am not enjoying writing something, I will stop.

I do feel, however, that at this point I am too far into writing this story to abandon it. That is not fair to you all! I will finish this. I promise. Just give me time.

Thank you all for sticking with me for so long. I really appreciate all the attention this story has gotten, even if I consider it to be my most embarrassing published work.

Thank you.

-Mighty Birb