“Mother of Dragons” is another way of spelling “Azor Ahai”, as it describes a gender-flipped big damn hero drawing a Red Sword out of fire and blood.
She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.
The dragons are animated by sacrifice, the power of what once was supposed to be yet now can never be, the blood and the souls and the strength and the courage of days that never were. The shape of shadows. The fire, the life.
She saw sunlight on the Dothraki sea, the living plain, rich with the smells of earth and death. Wind stirred the grasses, and they rippled like water. Drogo held her in strong arms, and his hand stroked her sex and opened her and woke that sweet wetness that was his alone, and the stars smiled down on them, stars in a daylight sky. “Home,” she whispered as he entered her and filled her with his seed, but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame.
Ser Jorah’s face was drawn and sorrowful. “Rhaegar was the last dragon,” he told her. He warmed translucent hands over a glowing brazier where stone eggs smouldered red as coals. One moment he was there and the next he was fading, his flesh colorless, less substantial than the wind. “The last dragon,” he whispered, thin as a wisp, and was gone. She felt the dark behind her, and the red door seemed farther away than ever.
Viserys stood before her, screaming. “The dragon does not beg, slut. You do not command the dragon. I am the dragon, and I will be crowned.” The molten gold trickled down his face like wax, burning deep channels in his flesh. “I am the dragon and I will be crowned!” he shrieked, and his fingers snapped like snakes, biting at her nipples, pinching, twisting, even as his eyes burst and ran like jelly down seared and blackened cheeks.
She could feel the heat inside her, a terrible burning in her womb. Her son was tall and proud, with Drogo’s copper skin and her own silver-gold hair, violet eyes shaped like almonds. And he smiled for her and began to lift his hand toward hers, but when he opened his mouth the fire poured out. She saw his heart burning through his chest, and in an instant he was gone, consumed like a moth by a candle, turned to ash. She wept for her child, the promise of a sweet mouth on her breast, but her tears turned to steam as they touched her skin.
…but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel.
She threw open the door.
“ … the dragon … ”
And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.
A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold. Yet at such a cost … When he thought of Nissa Nissa, it was his own Marya he pictured, a good-natured plump woman with sagging breasts and a kindly smile, the best woman in the world. He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered. I am not made of the stuff of heroes, he decided. If that was the price of a magic sword, it was more than he cared to pay.
“Only death can pay for life.”
“Three fires must you light … one for life…”
He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered.
Inside the tent Dany found a cushion, soft silk stuffed with feathers. She clutched it to her breasts as she walked back out to Drogo, to her sun-and-stars. If I look back I am lost. It hurt even to walk, and she wanted to sleep, to sleep and not to dream.
She knelt, kissed Drogo on the lips, and pressed the cushion down across his face.
“It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon.” “The moon of my life.” “I am not made of the stuff of heroes.”
Daenerys is made of the stuff of heroes, she’s a big damn one. “Fire made flesh, and so am I.”
She climbed the pyre herself to place the eggs around her sun-and-stars. The black beside his heart, under his arm.
No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don’t you see? Don’t you SEE? With a belch of flame and smoke that reached thirty feet into the sky, the pyre collapsed and came down around her. Unafraid, Dany stepped forward into the firestorm, calling to her children.
The third crack was as loud and sharp as the breaking of the world.
Interviewer: Why is Dany a princess and not a prince?
George: I made this choice a long time ago, but I think I wanted to play a little with gender roles and reverse things a little… And, of course, “Mother of Dragons”, to my mind, is much better than “Father of Dragons”. There is the connection between the woman who brings forth life carrying a huge power of death, fire and destruction. There are very powerful metaphors in there. (x)
Birthing dragons is a woman’s way of drawing a Red Sword of Heroes.
Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought.
He is fire made flesh, and so am I.
