Chapter Text
I am the blood of the dragon, she thinks as her bannermen filter into the throne room. None of them can touch me now.
She does not allow a smile to grace her lips; she is the warrior queen. They bow before her; Starks, Baratheons, Lannisters, and Tullys. Traitors, all of them; they destroyed her family, destroyed her future. Justice should be dealt. Justice must be dealt.
She can hear Drogon crying from the Dragon Pit, miles away. Viserion joins his cries, screaming for their lost brother.
Screaming for blood.
Soon, little ones, Danaerys Stormborn thinks, Soon.
--
"Even the little children?" Illyrio asks, his fat quivering in trepidation. The rest of her councilors are equally dismayed, murmuring insolence about the smallfolk and earning love.
But she does not have to earn love; she has fear, and vengeance. She thinks of her niece and nephew, the little prince and princess she never even met. She thinks of her son, and the murder that failed (but he was so close). Dany smiles coldly. "Even the little children."
--
The day of the trials dawns windy and cold. Slick ice covers the gallows -- little Shireen Baratheon slips on her way to the noose, but Sansa Stark grabs her arm, and she thanks her quietly. Tommen and Myrcella Hill wear Lannister crimson and gold, little lions dancing across their chests, and their uncle-father winks at Dany suggestively.
They die simultaneously, snow drifting down from the sky in a quiet lullaby. The Northerners face the sword, as per their request, and the Southron lords and ladies the noose.
Danaerys holds a great feast that night, in honor of the new Targaryen rule. They know better than to betray me now, she thinks, as the stained glass window behind her heats from the spectacular display of dragonfire happening in the yard. Blood and gold and love can't touch her now.
She bites her lip in pain when the throne cuts her hand, and a maester is on hand to bandage it right away.
She ignores the pointed look shared between Willas Tyrell, the new Lord of Highgarden, and Arianne Martell, Princess of Dorne.
I am the blood of the dragon, she thinks as the blood begins to clot. None of them can touch me now.