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From the first day they returned to Pentos, Daenerys felt as though she was revisiting her younger self, ghostly memories of the girl she’d once been haunting her every step. Whenever she set foot in Illyrio’s old manse, part of her expected to see Viserys come around a corner, with his cruel, grasping hands and constant threats of waking the dragon. Her memories of her previous stay in Pentos were of overwhelming fear, both of her brother and the man she was to marry, and loneliness, consuming and all-encompassing. Her wedding-being surrounded by hundreds of people, yet utterly isolated, with no one in the world she could trust-was the culmination of those two feelings.
Her life could not be more different now. Her brother, Illyrio, Drogo-the men who had sold her and the one who’d bought her-were all dead now, and Ser Jorah too, the only person to show her kindness on that terrible day. She had her people, her beloved khalasar and the Unsullied, and a true family-Missandei and Grey Worm, her dragons and the child growing within her.
Still, ever since her return from death, some part of her felt uncertain, as though she had not fully accepted all that had transpired. Nothing, not conversations with Missandei or immersing herself fully in planning campaigns or assisting the ruling council of Pentos, seemed to assuage these feelings.
The Dothraki believed that all important things in a man’s life must be done beneath the open sky, and for Daenerys, that had always been true. Her first marriage and its violent consummation, Drogo’s pyre and the birth of her dragons, meeting Missandei and freeing the Unsullied, the liberations of Yunkai and Meereen, uniting the Dothraki and sailing to Westeros-all had been outdoors. Even her death on a distant northern battlefield and subsequent rebirth had taken place beneath unfamiliar stars.
Perhaps closure could only come through reflection in a place of solitude, with the sun and sky alone to bear witness.
So one afternoon, Daenerys slipped away from their camp and mounted Drogon, flying away from the city to the place her life changed forever. It was just as she remembered, remote and stark in its beauty, the late afternoon sun turning the pale stone shades of red and gold. Drogon watched her quietly as she walked aimlessly around the quiet, empty space, lost in memories.
Without meaning to, without really knowing where her feet were taking her, she made her way to the very edge of the cliff. Despite the long years that had passed since she last stood on that precipice-years that had taken her across Essos and back, from one end of Westeros to the other-she still remembered the path she and Drogo had taken as though it was only yesterday.
Standing in the same spot as she had on her wedding night, Daenerys gazed out across the sea, her eyes searching in vain for a glimpse of Westeros, just as she had then. The view was unchanged-rolling waves stretching out endlessly towards the horizon-yet nothing else was the same.
Then the Seven Kingdoms had seemed half a dream, somewhere that only existed in her brother’s stories, a talisman to against the fear and uncertainty of their lives. For her, it had not felt like a real place occupied by real people, somewhere a person could be born and live and die. Yet while it was a land out of sight, it was not unattainable. Even though in her heart of hearts she had always known that Viserys’s boasts that he would retake the Iron Throne and restore all that had been stolen from their family were empty, she clung to the belief that somehow, some way, she could go home.
Now, she knew it was forever out of her reach. For so long the Seven Kingdoms had been her promise of home, of safety, of a house with a red door that would never be taken from her. That dream was shattered by the reality of Westeros-failure and betrayal, the cruelty experienced by her people, a northern blade in her back in this life and Jon’s dagger piercing her heart in another.
Jon. The thought of him sent a wave of pain over her so potent that she swayed in place, wanting to weep and scream curses at him from across the sea.
Love comes in at the eyes, Doreah told her what felt like a lifetime ago, in a tent deep within the Dothraki sea. Daenerys had never truly understood her words, not with Drogo or Daario. Yet when Jon looked at her as they lay together aboard her ship-she finally felt the kind of love Doreah had spoken of. His face was full of tenderness and adoration, something akin to wonder, and he seemed reluctant to tear his gaze from her face for even an instant, as though he couldn’t believe she was real…
Even as he moved above her, inside her, that had been the most intimate part of their lovemaking-the way he seemed to see her, to know her, the way no other man had. What they felt in that moment was breathless and poignant and so powerful it robbed them of speech.
Yet in the end, it wasn’t enough. Despite all that, despite the love they shared, he lied about his decision to bend the knee, devised a battle plan that sacrificed her people to protect his own, and chose to stay in the land that killed her and nearly murdered Missandei. He even sent Davos to White Harbor to beg her to remain in Westeros with him, even though to do so would have meant giving up everyone else she loved or putting them at grave risk.
She had loved Jon so much-still did love him, on some level, if she was honest with herself-and had been repaid with disinterest, treachery, and death.
Daenerys risked her life for Jon, over and over again. She would have gladly died for Drogo, if that had been the price the god’s wife Mirri Maz Durr named to save him. Yet neither of them would do the same for her. Drogo raped her until she nearly took her own life from despair, and Jon sacrificed her children and her armies, then repaid her with betrayal and a knife in her breast.
Was it always such, when a woman loved a man? Did he always take and take, stealing pieces of her for himself, until there was nothing left?
It could not be, she told herself, thinking of the love she had seen between others. Her bloodrider Okho and his wife Larra, a Lysene freedwoman he met in Meereen, were passionately devoted to one another, enough so that she followed him across the Narrow Sea and all the way to Winterfell. Grey Worm adored Missandei, loved her more than anything, and they were blissfully happy. Even now, with Grey Worm far away in Volantis, the mere mention of his name made Missandei’s face light up.
A particularly strong gust of wind stirred her braid, making the bells in her hair chime. Dany had collected nearly as many as her late husband had in his lifetime, and she wondered what Drogo would think if he could see her now. Would he be proud of all that she had achieved, that she had fulfilled Rhaego’s prophesized destiny to unite their people into a single khalasar and his own promise to lead the Dothraki across the sea? She thought so, though he would not understand many of her actions-especially why she had not simply gone directly to King’s Landing and taken the city as soon as she arrived in Westeros. Dany often found herself brooding over that too, wondering how different things would have been if she had followed her instincts instead of listening to Tyrion and Varys. Ellaria and her daughters, Olenna, and countless others would yet live, and perhaps even now she would sit on the throne built by her ancestors. She did not want that throne, not anymore, but all those lives lost for nothing...she would never stop regretting that.
Drogo also would have been puzzled by the utter folly of the Winterfell campaign: that she allowed the enemy to choose the time and place of the battle, how she squandered the strength of her people in that pointless charge.
Moon of my life, she could almost hear him saying in his deep voice, your riders are brave, but do not waste their strength to protect Milk Men cowering in their stone houses. Let these cold ones come south, to a narrow place where their numbers mean less, and lead our people against them yourself.
But perhaps that was just remorse at her own foolishness in letting Jon and Tyrion chart the course of that battle, then standing by and watching helplessly as her khalasar was consumed by the dead. If she had listened to the voice of doubt within her, so many Dothraki and Unsullied would not have fallen needlessly in that icy wasteland. It was so clear to her now, how flawed that strategy had been-trying to change herself to appeal to those who did not want her, letting others make decisions that affected her people.
It was one mistake Daenerys would never repeat. She was a khaleesi, the Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons, and would never again force herself to become something else, something less, to make herself more palatable to a man.
Sensing her sorrow, Drogon came to her, nuzzling her and giving a low, inquiring chirp. She stroked his head, letting his presence comfort her, and wondered if her children remembered Pentos at all. After all, this city was where they had first come into her hands, the place that had set them on a journey unlike that of any dragon before them-through the Dothraki Sea and across the Red Waste to Qarth, by ship to the Bay of Dragons, and beyond the Wall in Westeros. Did they possess any awareness of what transpired around them when they were still frozen in their eggs? Or had their lives begun when she stepped into her husband’s funeral pyre half a world away?
Idly she stroked her abdomen, resting her hand on the subtle swell concealed by her loose-fitting tunic. This pregnancy was easier than her last; aside from that bout of sickness on Dragonstone and some tenderness in her breasts, she felt perfectly normal, as alert and energetic as ever. Her daughter had not yet begun to move, but Vorri assured her that it would happen soon.
As eager as she was to hold her baby in her arms, as she had never done with Rhaego, Daenerys knew well that the world was not a safe place for children, particularly those who happened to be Targaryens. She’d spent her own childhood running, always just one step ahead of the Usurper’s hired knives trying to avoid the fate of her niece and nephew. Even though she begged him not to, Viserys reveled in telling her that horrific tale over and over again, of Rhaenys dragged from beneath her father’s bed and stabbed half a hundred times, of Aegon torn from his mother’s arms and dashed against a wall. The Usurper tried to poison Rhaego before he drew breath, and if her son had not been murdered in her womb, likely some rival of Drogo’s would have killed him as soon as he was born.
Daughter of death, the Undying named her, and they had the truth of it. She had lost so many: her parents and brothers, Barristan and Jorah, her sun-and-stars and Rhaego. In that other life glimpsed in her vision, Viserion remained lost to her forever, and Missandei and Rhaegal were brutally murdered, their lives snuffed out for naught.
Daenerys pushed those thoughts from her mind. Though she would never forget her dead, she could not let herself linger on them, lest she drown in grief. She would honor their memories by protecting those she loved who still walked among the living, to her last breath.
Her sons and Missandei, Grey Worm and all her people…
And the child growing beneath her heart, the girl she was already thinking of as Rhaella-for the brave mother who died giving her life, for the valiant brother slain before his time, for the son murdered in her womb-her most of all.
Her family was her home, not Westeros, not that house in Braavos.
“They will not take my daughter,” she said aloud, her voice filled with emotion. It was not a vow to some god or person, but a promise to herself.
And as much as it hurt her, she knew that there was only one way to keep her family and her people safe.
Wrapping her arms around her small belly, she took a deep breath, and let Jon go.
Dany wasn’t sure how long she stood there, watching the sun slip closer to the sea, feeling at peace despite her sadness. Drogon lifted his head and let out a chirp, and faintly she heard his brothers respond. Looking back towards Pentos, she saw Rhaegal and Viserion approaching, their scales gleaming in the setting sun. Though at this distance she could not see Missandei, she was certain that she was riding Rhaegal, as her friend loved to fly above all else.
They were moving relatively slowly, and Viserion nipped at Rhaegal, evidently trying to bait him into a race. It was clear the moment that Missandei gave in, as both dragons shot forward with great sweeps of their wings, massive shadows racing across the earth below them. The sight made her heart swell with joy, a reminder that they were healthy and safe and alive.
Despite her conflicted feelings for Jon, she knew beyond a doubt that she had never loved him in the way she loved her children-human and dragon, living and dead-or Missandei, her sister, her best friend, her partner in all things. Dany loved Jon, had loved Drogo, and cared deeply for Daario, but Missandei occupied a special place in her heart. The night of her resurrection, they named one another qoy qoyi, blood of my blood, a solemn promise to ride side by side through the world and share a single life.
For Daenerys, even before they spoke the ancient words to bind themselves, that had been true. In that other life, part of her died when Missandei was murdered, a loss was as fatal to her as Jon’s blade, in its own way. That pain had destroyed her, and though she still did not understand why she had burned King’s Landing-her memories of the event were strange, disjointed, as if she were not in control of herself while it was happening-she did remember being choked by grief and rage. But now was not the time for such thoughts, and she pushed them aside.
Viserion, always the fastest of her three, reached them first and circled above them while calling teasingly down to his brother. Just as Rhaegal landed, Drogon launched himself into the air, chasing after Viserion as they flew over the water. The golden dragon shot upward, pursued closely by Drogon, and the two collided in midair, catching hold of one another and tumbling down in a great ball of scales and wings. They crashed into the sea, sending a massive wave towards the cliff face, and Dany smiled as they rose from the water an instant later, snapping playfully at one another even as they began to hunt.
It was a game they had played since they were small, beginning on the journey from Qarth to Astapor, yet the first time she saw Rhaegal and Viserion plunge into the stormy waters off Dragonstone after her resurrection, she felt the cold hands of fear grip her, as though she was still a girl trembling before her brother’s wrath. For an instant, it was as though she were watching Viserion plummeting into the ice with the Night King’s spear in his breast or Rhaegal falling from the sky pierced by scorpion bolts. At first when she returned from death, she was overwhelmed by memories from her other life, triggered by things as mundane as the glint of a steel blade.
But as days and weeks passed, those memories began to recede from the forefront of her mind, and though she did not think she would ever be rid of them entirely, at least they no longer dominated her mind. In time she hoped they would come to occupy a place alongside her other painful memories, like those of Viserys’s abuse and the loss of Rhaego, Barristan and Jorah, never entirely gone but not casting the rest of her life in perpetual shadow.
Missandei slid down gracefully from Rhaegal’s back, like she had been doing it all her life. Jon may have shared in Daenerys’s Valyrian ancestry, but he had never been comfortable around the dragons, let alone bonded with Rhaegal as Missandei had. A Targaryen father did not make him blood of the dragon.
Dany had wondered how Missandei taking Rhaegal as a mount would affect her own bond with the dragon, if it would weaken or even disappear entirely, but thankfully that had not happened. Instead the bond had seemed to expand, growing to accommodate Missandei without pushing Daenerys out. Although she did not feel her friend the same way as she did her sons, Missandei’s moods and emotions did affect Rhaegal, so Daenerys was more aware of them than she had ever been previously.
Instead of joining his brothers, Rhaegal followed Missandei as she approached Daenerys, reaching his head out for a stroke from his mother before curling up around them. The green dragon had been especially attentive towards Missandei since Grey Worm’s departure, sensing how deeply she missed him, and was more protective of the women than ever. All three dragons were, in truth-they only hunted in pairs now, with one always staying near Dany and Missandei. She wasn’t sure whether it was because her sons knew they were going to war again soon, if her pregnancy and Grey Worm’s absence made them feel that they were more vulnerable, or if their experiences in Westeros made them warier in general. Perhaps it was some combination of all three, but in any case, Daenerys didn’t mind.
Daenerys greeted Missandei, and asked, “Is everything alright? I’m sorry I didn’t leave a note.”
Her decision to leave the camp alone had been impulsive, and she hadn’t meant to worry anyone with her absence.
“All is well, when I saw that you left with Drogon I knew you were safe. I thought it would be pleasant to get away from Pentos tonight, so I came to join you. And I have something for you,” Missandei said, pulling something from her belt and pressing it into Daenerys’s hand. “Not quite as fine as Valyrian steel armor, but I think it will please you nonetheless.”
Intrigued, Daenerys carefully began to unravel the linen wrapped around the item, which was small enough to fit in her palm. There was nothing she needed, and although they received many gifts from those who wished to honor the only two dragonriders in the world, they sold nearly all of them to purchase supplies for their people. The only exception was books, which Missandei had copied by freed scribes so that she might keep one copy for herself while the others were distributed to schools and the new public libraries. But whatever this was, it was far too small to be a book.
It was a portrait, painted vividly in the Myrish style, and from the fragility of the material she suspected it was quite old. Though it was attractive and a fine example of craftsmanship, Daenerys was uncertain why Missandei would want to give it to her, until she really looked at the subject of the painting.
The woman gazing serenely at the viewer could have been Dany herself, with similar features and long silver-gold hair flowing loose around her shoulders. Even their eyes were the same, down to the shape and color.
But Daenerys knew it was not a portrait of herself, because she recognized the crown perched atop the woman’s head-a delicate band of gold encircled her forehead, set with seven gemstones, each of a different color. She had last seen it as a girl, when Viserys sold it and the last joy had gone from him. This was her mother, who had used her last breath to give Daenerys her name.
And Rhaella was not alone. In her lap sat a child of perhaps five years, indigo eyes bright above a toothy smile. She knew it was not Viserys, whose eyes had been pale lilac.
“Mother…Rhaegar…” she whispered, eagerly drinking in their faces, unknown yet still beloved. Somehow they felt familiar-the dimples in Rhaegar’s cheeks reminded her of Jon, the quirk of Rhaella’s brow reminiscent of Viserys’s expression in a rare moment of mirth. She ran her finger lightly over their painted images, as if she could slip through the veil of time and embrace them.
Emotions bubbled up inside her: grief and happiness, a sense that something she had never known she was missing had finally been fulfilled, and overwhelming love, for the family she had lost as much as the family she had now.
Missandei was smiling as she slipped an arm around Daenerys’s waist.
“I met a merchant today who supplied your father’s court with exotic materials for many years. He said he had a gift for you, and before I could inform him that we had no need for tiger skins or ivory hair ornaments, he gave me this. Apparently they were given to friends of the crown for your brother’s fifth nameday, and his copy survived all these years.”
Daenerys turned towards Missandei, pulling her into a firm embrace. “Thank you so much, Missandei. I will treasure it for the rest of my days.”
As they pulled apart, Daenerys felt a flutter of movement in her abdomen, a half-forgotten sensation yet still familiar. For a moment she was back in the Dothraki sea, feeling Rhaego stir and understanding that this was real, that in a few short months she would look on her child’s face for the first time.
She gasped, her hands flying to her stomach, and Missandei said, “What is it? Is the baby moving?”
“Yes,” Dany replied, her smile so wide that it made her cheeks ache. “Here, so you can feel her-”
She took Missandei’s hands and pressed them against her belly, trying to place them in the right spot, but after a moment Missandei shook her head.
“I can’t feel anything yet. But Vorri said that was normal, you would feel her first and later we would be able to as well.”
Suddenly Viserion landed in front of them with a great crash, making the baby jump within her.
Lowering his massive head, he nosed at her belly like he was searching for something, buffeting her with his hot breath. He let out a low trill, similar to the sounds her dragons made when they were calling to her or Missandei or each other. Seemingly in response Rhaella kicked, as if she was reaching out to her brother, and Daenerys thought her heart would overfill with joy.