Fire and Blood

Man or God?

A/N: Apologies for the lack of updates or activity. These two months since have been absolutely taxing. The COVID-19 Pandemic, lockdowns and assignments all mangled in one. I hope you guys enjoy this filler. The chapters will now be a mix of past and present happenings.

And as the life left her physical embodiment, a state of great contradictions fell upon her. She mourned the betrayal suffered. She mourns the broken heart she cradles. She mourns the man whom she believed had loved her. No one can love a dragon. Her thoughts rush. Wrong, a dragon may be loved, but by its offspring alone. But then again, who needs love. You. She cringed at such weakness. She was a dragon for Gods sake.

Despite it all, she felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her. She felt light and unburdened by the duties and expectations of being a Queen. She felt liberated. At what cost? She does not want to think of it. She does not wish it all. She mentally tries to block of such thoughts. But like a mace, it break through her guard. Her eyes or whatever it be are akin to be pried open. And she sees it all.

The innocents who came from her Eastern domain, punished and discriminated in Westeros. Whilst their brethren in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen plunged into civil war. Masters re-enslaving freedmen, freedmen fighting for freedom, Masters killing one another. The children cry in agony, widows howl their loss of husband and children. The soil of the Earth drowned in a river of blood. Her gaze turns to Westeros. The Sunset Kingdoms. From the Wall to the Sands of Dorne, her western realms sprawls.

Knights in shining armour charge across plains. Warriors inducted to protect the poor and weak, betray their Holy Oaths. Armoured fists strike down like thunder. The Trident, the great river reddened by the bloodshed to come. The souls of the commons reaped as conscripts and victimized as free kills. The Seven Kingdoms were ablaze. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Protector of the Realm. Screams of terror flood her senses as the capitol is sacked not once, but twice and even thrice. The Iron Throne had more occupants in a year than the entire Dance of Dragons.

King's Landing, reduced to a wayside ruin. Still standing amidst it all, the Iron Throne. The object of ultimate desire. Kings and Queens, usurpers, pretenders, fanatics, zealots and traitors. A succession of weak and scheming fools. We are not going to stop the wheel. We are going to break it. The said wheel enlarges, with iron spikes. The great game continues. Houses suffer here and there but the commons, they are torn. They are broken, defiled and destroyed. To be reborn in short peace and strung up for long wars.

To Dragonstone she sees her loyal councilors plan to unseat her usurping husband. Her children, motherless by death and fatherless by war. Forced to grow in a realm of war. Not by the hands of mankind shall they die but by the demands of duty and expectation. Daenys, her sweet child. Dead before her time. A child of summer but grieving her lost childhood. She dies, a cup in hand. Poison, a cowards weapon but a quick and painless death.

Daeron, her strong boy. He grows sullen and mournful. As strong as Maegor and as wise as Jaehaerys. But grieves and more broken than Aegon III. Free of madness but enslaved to grief. The Restorer they will cheer him. The Last of the Dragons they mourn when he breathes his last after a long and prosperous reign. Yet when he dies, ends the line of Valyria. Childless by choice, laid low by grief of a broken family. The greatest of their House but the most broken of them all. Is this the fate of Valyria, Her children laid waste by lesser men?

She mourns the fate of the world to be. She mourns her children. She mourns enemies and friends alike. But she is dead, she is dead. She will not be there to protect them as she could.

Open your eyes my Chosen One. Open your eyes, your heart and your soul. Accept of what you know, deep in your bones that is yours to claim. Open.

Ghosts in the regalia of Kings, with hair of gold, hair of silver and hair of platinum. In their grip is a sword of great pale flame. Eyes they bore into hers, of opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade. Faster they scream, awake the blood within, rise and claim what is yours by blood, by destiny, by fate.

She resists, she holds back. Until she concedes and she truly opens her eyes. Darkness greets her but slowly the light returns. She finds herself actually awake, living and breathing. Raised upon a stone like slab, blood like stone but oily to touch. She raises herself and she hears the chant.

"Hail the Mother of Dragons, the Bride of Fire, the One who Was Promised, Blood of Valyria, Savior of the World!" She sees them the Red Priests, and similarly looking persons with red-like masks. Creatures of all sorts either chant or kneel. She feels Drogon, circling above in the skies. She feels the magic of this place, magic that flows. Then she hears the last chant, a faint whisper but she feels herself privy to it.

Hail to the Empress reborn.

And she grieves of the new great weight placed upon her shoulders. She grieves of her lack of choice in her fate. She grieves for the simple red door and lemon tree of her past. She grieves until she can grieve no more. Until her tears have dried and her throat is parched. For she can grieve no longer.

Her eyes, amethyst they are, glow brighter than ever. Shining with knowledge of what must be done. Drogon lands above her. His snout gently caressing her cheek. The closest to a mourn may have for its mother. Rise, now is the time.

She stands. In the center of it all. The heart of darkness alight with the flames of men and Gods. Priestly chants and prayers become louder. Drowning her thoughts. She is not alone in this ruined place.

But she feels alone. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. She is alone.