Stormborn

In her vision of darkness, the soft aura of light came to pass her by. The air was cool and chilled her tingling skin. Black coating her vision, her mind slowly rumbled to the memories of her distant past. Fire. Blood. Bells. Betrayal. How bitter she felt, to sense the recent sting of treachery upon her breast from her lover. The dagger plunged into her heart evoked many unsaid emotions, each one angering her more and more.

Why, why?

She loved him. She was certain she did, and she was certain he returned her affections – that was, until he discovered his familial blood-tie to her ancient House. House of the Dragon – feared by all – loved by few. Fire and blood marked her existence as well as that of her predecessors. She came to liberate Westeros and its Seven Kingdoms from its tyrannical rule of the illegitimates, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. She was their savior, she was certain. The Iron Throne was hers, waiting for its one true heir to sit upon its seat of blades and rule the lands with dignity and power. All her life she stood in the maniacal shadow of her brother Viserys, victim to his madness and his fits of outrage while he schemed and plotted unsuccessfully to make his claim as the rightful King. Was she the rightful King – no, Queen?

The answer was simple – she was a Khaleesi.

She was the Queen of Meereen. The Breaker of Chains. Mhysa. The Unburnt.

The Mother of Dragons.

Stormborn.

The One True Heir to the Iron Throne.

She was born to rule. Unlike her insane excuse for a brother, she had the grace and kindness that was befitting of any ruler – at least, for a time. Beaten and bruised, scratched and groped, she remembered the fear that struck her whenever he would whisper 'Did you want to awaken the Dragon?' into her trembling heart. Watching him die before her in a pool of molten gold horrified her yet satisfied her all at once – she was finally free from his vicious torment. If he would have lived, she would have been forced to bear his children – as sibling marriage was the gracious tradition of House Targaryen – to keep the waning bloodline pure.

As she lay on the altar of black stone, her silver hair was brittle, her braids breaking with each wind that passed her lifeless husk. Her lips were pale, skin cold and the dagger – its silver hilt still protruding from her breast while she lay in eternal slumber. A burst of fire flowed through her memories as the weight of the dagger vanished into the darkness.

"Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon,"

The warmth she felt from her lover's glance was all she ever wanted. She would have given anything to see him again – and she already did. Before her eyes, she saw him crumble away into nothing. A once proud and ruthless warrior – reduced to a withering worm by her naïve trust in a witch and her blood-magic. 'Moon of my life' he would breathe into her, 'My sun, my stars'. How she longed she could be with him again in the vast Dothraki Grass Sea, their lost son Rhaego at their side – his first grasp at life torn from him so soon as a consequence of her blind trust and desperation. She would give a thousand Iron Thrones for a life with the Khalasaar.

My children, my children...

Hatched from her husband's funeral pyre, her three young dragons made their mark in the world, their cries echoing across the Red Wastes at their birth. Tales of their hatching spread far and wide, striking fear into those of King's Landing who feared the return of dragons – and instilling hope in those who sought the removal of the Usurper and his disputed line. The crimson air of the red comet above proved it – her children were prophesized for greatness, and so was she. Black, gold, green – her children's scales gleamed in the desert sun as they journeyed from Qarth to Astapor, to Yunkai, and to Meereen, each of the dragons growing greater in size as the seasons came to pass.