Hello, I'm new to tumblr and I don't really understand how it works. So Welcome to my account and i hope you enjoy reading what i post😁.
I will be writing one shots of different celebrities and characters of both movies and series. And a Wattpad writer will also be helping me and will let me upload their one shots to my profile.
Below I will update the famous ones and the one shots that I will upload:
Emily Dickinson -> "The past comes back" Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 .
Daenerys Targaryen -> "The rightful heir." Part 1, Part 2, Prart 3, Part 4, Part 5.
Hailee Steinfeld -> "The Late Late Show"
Rhaenyra Targaryen -> "The Personal Guard." Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6.
Eloise Bridgerton -> "The Prince". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
Emily Junk -> "The New Bella." Part 1, Part 2, ...
Wednesday Addams -> "The wolf in my bed". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
Tara Carpenter -> "The lies I keep". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6...
Kendall Jenner -> "Yes". Part1, Part 2.
Sarah Cameron -> "The Ice Cream". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.
Kylie Jenner -> “The Babysitter”. Part 1, Part 2.
Tate McRae -> "Great Coincidence". Part 1, Part 2...
Jackie Taylor -> "Our Destiny". Part 1, Part 2.
Maddy Perez -> "The Right Choice". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
Sabrina Carpenter -> "The Italian hottie". Part 1, Part 2....
Maxine Baker -> "The Stepsister". Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4.
The sun bore down hard over the dusty plains outside Meereen, casting shade across the golden standards of your host. Ten thousand strong, their armor gleamed beneath the high Essosi sun—mercenaries, exiled knights, old sellswords loyal to a forgotten dream. Red banners stitched with the black three-headed dragon of your House—your dragon, inverted in rebellion—snapped in the wind. The Blackfyre returned. And at the head of it all, mounted atop a dappled destrier, you watched the city walls in the distance, expression carved from cold marble.
You were Maelys' blood—his grandson, forged in the ashes of exile and raised by men who still whispered the wrong dragon sat the throne. You were named for the weapon long lost, for a sword stolen by history and swallowed by the lies of the Targaryens who had won. But they had not extinguished your line. No, they had merely buried it. And now, you rose from that grave with the fire of vengeance in your veins and pale lilac eyes that burned with purpose.
On the ramparts, the Unsullied stood like stone, unmoving. Below, the gates remained closed, but the city stirred. You could feel it. Rumors had likely already reached her—a dragon come east, with fire in his name and the blood of Maelys in his heart.
Inside the Great Pyramid, Barristan Selmy stood before her, grim and tight-lipped. His armor was fastened with care, but there was a stiffness to his spine, the kind a man wears when he’s already rehearsed the worst news.
“He’s here, Your Grace.”
Daenerys turned, calm, regal in her white and silver silks, one hand still resting on the carved armrest of her throne. Her hair was braided in a crown—Dothraki war braid woven through with silver rings of Valyrian make. Her eyes, purple and brilliant as winter stars, did not flinch.
“Who?”
“The boy they call the Blackfyre. His host arrived this morning. Gold cloaks, exiled knights, sellswords from Tyrosh, Lys, and the Basilisk Isles. Half of them fly your father’s banner—inverted.”
Daenerys narrowed her gaze.
“He dares.”
“He dares everything,” Selmy replied, voice like gravel. “He’s Maelys’ grandson. A Blackfyre with the look of old Valyria. Pale hair. Lilac eyes. Some are calling him ‘The Last Dragon’—not because of blood, but because of vengeance.”
“And what would you have me do?” she asked coolly. “Hide in my pyramid while he parades my father's banner upside-down beneath my gates?”
“I would have you let me kill him,” Selmy said plainly. “Let me ride out with fifty Unsullied. I’ll have his head on a spike by nightfall.”
Daenerys stood. Her voice was soft, but it cut through the air like a whip.
“No. I will speak to him.”
Selmy’s mouth tightened. “Your Grace—”
“If he is truly what he says, then we are kin. If he is not, then I will know by his eyes.”
The gates opened not long after. Your men shifted in the saddle, some raising their spears in readiness, but you held out a single gloved hand. Wait. The silence stretched taut—until you saw her.
She rode out alone.
Silver-hair blowing in the breeze, astride a pale white mare. No guard, no army. Just her. You’d seen paintings of her mother Rhaella, and you knew the tales of Aerys' madness. But she was neither. She was something else entirely. Radiant. Dangerous.
And when she stopped a few paces away from you, you both studied each other like gods sizing up a rival constellation.
“You’re braver than I expected,” you said, tone flat.
“And you’re younger than I imagined.” Her voice was unshaken. “I was told the grandson of Maelys would be a half-mad butcher with a crown of bone and bile. But you look almost… civil.”
You dismounted.
Your armor creaked as your boots hit the dry ground. The sand shifted underfoot, but your gaze did not waver.
“I’ve heard your name whispered since childhood, Daenerys Stormborn. Targaryen. Khaleesi. Breaker of Chains. I wanted to see if you were truly real.”
“And are you satisfied?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting.
You smiled. It didn’t reach your eyes.
“I’m never satisfied.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You came to kill me then?”
“No. Not yet.” You stepped closer. Her horse whinnied once but didn’t retreat. “I came to see what kind of Queen you are. What kind of dragon.”
She tilted her head. “And what do you see?”
“I see a woman surrounded by ghosts. I see someone who wears her name like armor, same as I do. You were born on Dragonstone. I was born in the gutter behind a brothel in Tyrosh. But we both bleed silver and fire. You for your House. Me for mine.”
“There is no your House,” she replied, voice cool and precise. “The Blackfyres died with your grandfather.”
You laughed once—low and bitter. “The Blackfyres died on your side of the story. Not mine.”
A silence stretched, thick with animosity and heat.
Then she dismounted too.
Her feet crunched against the dust as she walked toward you. Not a flicker of fear in her step. She stopped barely a breath away.
“You come to challenge me,” she said, tone steady. “But this is not Westeros. This is my city. My rule. You are just another exile with a grudge.”
You leaned in slightly, voice like a coiled blade.
“And you’re just another dragon playing queen with a borrowed army.”
Something flickered in her eyes—rage, maybe, or recognition. But it passed.
“What do you want?” she asked.
You looked over her shoulder to the pyramid behind her, then to the Unsullied lining the walls.
“Recognition. Retribution. And your crown.”
A cold wind rose off the bay, sweeping sand between you both.
“And if I say no?”
You shrugged. “Then we’ll dance.”
Her expression darkened, but her voice remained calm.
“Then I hope you’re a better dancer than your grandfather.”
You smiled again, this time sharper. Hungrier.
“Oh, I am. I don’t die screaming with my guts in my hands. I win.”
She turned without another word and mounted her mare. You watched her ride back to the gates like she owned the sky itself.
You whispered under your breath, “Not for long.”
And the banners of Blackfyre twisted in the wind behind you.
The war tent smelled of leather, sweat, and the harsh tang of boiled wine. Maps lay splayed across the center table, pinned down with black obsidian stones and weights made from melted coins—Valyrian steel wasn’t needed for this war, just nerve and precision. The morning sun poured through the slit of canvas, gilding the dust in gold. You stood at the edge of the table, arms crossed, as your commanders gathered with cautious energy rippling through the air.
Ser Marq Rykker was the first to speak, a grizzled knight from the Reach who wore his exile like a badge of honor. He tapped a spot on the map just outside Meereen’s eastern wall with his gauntlet.
“She’s losing control, my prince. Half the slaves she freed want their chains back, and the other half are cutting throats in the alleys for bread. The Sons of the Harpy are bleeding her Unsullied one by one, and the noble houses still spit when they speak her name.”
You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed on the dragon-etched seal at the center of the map, worn down by fingers and fate.
“Reports?”
Another man—Kavos, a lean-eyed tactician from the Free Cities with a voice like crushed parchment—cleared his throat.
“We’ve confirmed sightings, my prince. Two of the dragons are still chained in the catacombs beneath the pyramid. Locals say their roars echo through the stone every night like thunder. The third—black one, by most accounts—hasn’t returned in moons. Some say it’s dead. Others say it fled east.”
You drummed your fingers once against the pommel of your sword. “And yet,” you murmured, “she still calls herself Mother of Dragons.”
“She’s mother to many things,” muttered Rykker, “but discipline ain’t one of them.”
The tent fell quiet for a long beat.
You stepped forward slowly, circling the table, hands behind your back. The black-and-red of your cloak whispered over the sand as you moved. The men watched you—not out of fear, but anticipation. They had followed you across the sea not because you promised them riches, but because you spoke to the hollow places inside them. The places that remembered betrayal. Exile. Loss.
“She would rather chain her dragons than risk losing the last of her fire,” you said finally, voice even. “A queen afraid of her own blood. Of her own shadow.”
Kavos asked carefully, “Shall we advance?”
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you walked to the open tent flap and looked out over your army—rows upon rows of mounted sellswords, Free City lancers, rogue Second Sons, Summer Island axemen, Westerosi exiles, and broken knights from every corner of the dying world. All of them shaped by desperation. All of them burning for something. A cause. A king.
“No,” you said at last.
You turned, eyes cold and bright.
“Send a raven to her.”
Rykker blinked. “A raven? My prince—”
“Send it. Write this exactly: ‘Daenerys Stormborn. Bring one of your dragons. Set it upon me. If it burns me to ash, then your problem is solved and the world need not suffer the return of Blackfyre. If it fails, bend the knee. Or burn.’”
The silence inside the tent was immediate, deep, and nearly holy. As if you’d just spoken the name of a god none of them had dared believe in.
“My prince, if she takes you at your word—”
“I hope she does.” Your voice did not tremble. “I am not afraid of fire. I was born in it.”
Kavos nodded slowly, already scribbling the message onto parchment. Rykker’s brow was furrowed, but the glint in his eye betrayed something dangerously close to awe.
“And the army?” he asked.
You strode past him, out of the tent and into the morning heat. The city of Meereen shimmered in the distance, white and defiant, yet exhausted. You could feel its bones cracking beneath the weight of her dreams.
“Formation,” you ordered. “Let her see us ready. Let her see what’s coming.”
The horns began to blow across the camp—deep, droning calls that roused the soldiers from their tents and made the horses stamp their hooves into the dust. Banners rose. Spears locked. Shields slammed into the earth. And in the center of it all, you stood motionless—like prophecy given flesh.
As the raven was loosed toward the city, wings black against the dawn, you watched it disappear into the sky and whispered:
“Come, Daenerys. Show me what kind of mother you really are.”
The Great Pyramid of Meereen had grown quiet in the late hour. The city below seethed in unrest, but above it—atop the wind-swept apex where Daenerys Targaryen often took her counsel—the air hung heavy, still, and blistering with heat. The sun had begun its descent behind the walls, bleeding a dusky red haze through the chamber’s narrow stone windows. Torches flickered against the carved marble, casting shadows across the floor like the bones of ancient beasts.
Daenerys sat at the head of the table, her expression unreadable. A message rested in her hands, the parchment stiff with dried sweat, the seal broken—a wax-stamped dragon, red and black.
She read the words again.
“Daenerys Stormborn. Bring one of your dragons. Set it upon me. If it burns me to ash, then your problem is solved and the world need not suffer the return of Blackfyre. If it fails, bend the knee. Or burn.”
Jorah stood to her left, stiff and silent. His jaw was clenched, face drawn with the ache of too many disappointments and too little favor. Daario lounged against the pillar to her right, chewing the corner of his mustache, one hand resting lazily on the curved hilt of his arakh. Across the table, Barristan Selmy stood tall, arms crossed over his chest, his hair silvered by torchlight. Beside him, Grey Worm remained expressionless, his discipline as firm as the armor he wore.
It was Ser Barristan who broke the silence.
“This is madness, Your Grace. Provocation designed to bait you. Do not give this boy the honor of a dragon’s fire.”
Daenerys looked up from the letter.
“He wants to die,” Jorah muttered. “Let him throw himself into a bonfire if he’s so eager.”
“He wants something,” Daario said, voice smooth as wet silk. “A spectacle, maybe. Or to test your blood, see if you really breathe flame like the songs say.”
“He’s already a legend among the exiles,” Barristan added grimly. “Maelys’ blood or not, he has the look, the name, and the men. If he survives this, even barely, he becomes myth. The kind that doesn’t die quietly.”
Grey Worm finally spoke, his voice low but firm. “Unsullied can be ready by dawn. We kill the prince, take his head to the pyramid.”
“No.”
The room fell quiet again. Daenerys folded the letter once, twice, and placed it on the table with deliberate calm. Her eyes, purple and unblinking, swept across them.
“No, I will give him what he asked for.”
Jorah leaned forward, tone urgent. “Daenerys, please—”
“I said no.” Her voice was low, but sharp, like obsidian dragging across stone. “He calls himself Blackfyre. He flies my father’s banner upside-down and rides at the head of ten thousand blades, and yet he dares challenge me not with armies, but with fire.”
She rose from her chair. Her silks whispered against the marble as she moved to the tall window slit that overlooked the city below. Her hands rested on the cool edge of the frame, and in the fading light, she looked less like a queen and more like a storm about to break.
“He thinks fire is a weapon he can endure. That if he survives it, I will be forced to yield.”
Daario chuckled darkly. “Then let him burn.”
She turned, slow and regal, and for a moment there was something unearthly in her bearing. “I will not burn him with Drogon,” she said. “He’s too valuable. Too wild. He flies where he wishes, when he wishes.”
Her eyes fell on Barristan.
“I will give him Rhaegal.”
Barristan stiffened. “Rhaegal is barely under your control, Your Grace. You’ve said so yourself. He does not obey like Viserion.”
“Exactly,” Daenerys said coldly. “He’s the most unpredictable of my children. The angriest. He breathes fire for joy and shrieks when he kills. If anyone is to taste true dragonfire, it will be from him.”
Grey Worm frowned. “And if the dragon fails?”
She looked at him.
“Then I’ll know I face a man who cannot be stopped by fire. And I’ll need another plan.”
She stepped back to the center of the chamber, voice rising with quiet finality.
“He wants to stand before a dragon? Let him.”
Then, softer, almost as if to herself:
“We’ll see if he still wants a crown when he’s staring into the mouth of Rhaegal.”
None of the men spoke. Not even Daario, whose smile had faded. Not even Jorah, who looked at her with something dangerously close to dread. Only Barristan held her gaze with that quiet, knightly defiance.
“Your Grace,” he said, voice grave. “If he survives Rhaegal’s fire… we may be facing something Westeros has not seen in a hundred years.”
Daenerys stared back at him, calm and resolute.
“Then let Westeros remember what it means to wake the dragons.”
The sky was bruised with smoke and salt when she rode out. Dust rose in swirls around the column of Unsullied that followed, silent as wraiths. Daenerys Stormborn sat tall atop her pale mare, silver braids glinting beneath the sun, flanked by Barristan Selmy on a white courser and Jorah Mormont on a thick-necked black gelding. Neither man spoke. Neither had to. The tension was a living thing, taut in their spines and the way they gripped their reins.
Behind them, led by iron chains and restrained by a dozen Unsullied handlers wielding barbed poles, came Rhaegal. Green and bronze, wings half-unfurled in defiance, his great clawed feet dragged trenches through the earth. He was no longer a hatchling, but not yet a full beast. His head rose high above them all, ridged with horns like a crown of scorched bone. The great beast’s amber eyes blinked slowly, tail twitching in restless arcs as he hissed at the wind and snapped at the chains when it pleased him. The smell of him was acrid—scorched meat and sulfur, smoke and age. Fire that had never gone out.
Daenerys glanced behind her only once, just enough to watch the curve of his scaled neck twist as he sniffed the air. Rhaegal was not Drogon. He did not come when called. He did not obey. But today, he followed.
Today, he hunted.
Far across the dry, cracked plain, your banner snapped in the wind—red silk devouring the sun, stitched with the black three-headed dragon inverted like a curse. Your army stood like the bones of a great serpent—ranks fanned wide, curved, deliberate. You sat astride your stallion at the front, unspeaking, cloak billowing in the breeze. The sunlight struck your armor in molten glints, silver chased with darker steel, your helm absent, your pale lilac eyes stern and still.
Rykker rode up beside you, voice tight with unease. “My prince… I’ll say it again: this is not a war fought with swords. You’re wagering blood against a god’s breath.”
You didn’t respond immediately. You kept your gaze fixed on the approaching storm—on the slinking form of the dragon being dragged across the plain, the glint of Unsullied spears, the glimmer of silver hair catching the breeze.
“Good,” you murmured. “Let her think it’s already over.”
“Gods.” Rykker spat into the dust. “You really are your grandfather’s shadow.”
You turned your head, just slightly.
“No,” you said. “I’m his reckoning.”
Then you dismounted.
The moment your boots struck earth, there was a shift in the wind. You moved forward alone, each step deliberate, quiet, like you were walking into a chapel instead of a battlefield. The only sound was the wind scraping across cracked stone and the distant hiss of chain.
Daenerys saw you from atop her mare—saw the way your cloak dragged behind you like shadow, saw your head held high, your hands empty.
“He dismounts,” Barristan noted from her side. “No fear. That’s… troubling.”
Jorah grunted. “He’s bluffing. He thinks if he plays martyr, we won’t strike.”
“He’s not bluffing,” Daenerys said, voice low. “He’s calling.”
She didn’t need to give the signal. Rhaegal had already seen you.
The dragon let out a loud, keening cry that cut through the heat like a blade. The Unsullied tightened their grip, pulling the chains taut, but it didn’t matter. Rhaegal surged forward, dragging them like children behind him, claws tearing trenches through the sand as he gained speed. The ground trembled beneath the thunder of his weight, wings half-raised but unused, his snarl deepening as he tore across the distance between you.
You didn’t move.
Daenerys watched, every nerve burning, her fingers tight on her reins.
Rhaegal closed the gap in seconds.
He reared up, let out a shriek that made horses rear and soldiers flinch. Dust blew out from the sheer force of it.
And then he stopped.
Dead still. Breath hot and fast, smoke curling from his nostrils. A stone’s throw from you.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
You looked up at him, calmly. Unflinching. No sword. No shield. Just your eyes locked to his.
The dragon’s nostrils flared. His tail lashed. His wings flexed wide in instinct—but he did not strike.
Daenerys’s heart pounded behind her ribs, harder than it had in years.
“What in the seven hells…” Jorah muttered, his voice all bone and disbelief.
Rhaegal screamed again, the sound furious and guttural—but his claws stayed rooted. The beast shuffled, agitated, as if torn between command and instinct, between fire and recognition.
“I don’t understand,” Barristan whispered. “Why doesn’t he attack?”
Daenerys was already off her horse, stepping forward. Not far—just enough to study it. To see.
There was something wrong.
No—something different.
Rhaegal paced now in tight, sharp turns, always keeping you in his line of sight. He hissed. Growled. Raised his wings high.
But he would not strike.
You stood utterly still. Dust clung to your boots. Sweat traced your temple. You looked the beast in the eye like it was a mirror, not a monster.
And then Rhaegal did something none of them expected.
He dropped his wings.
His tail stilled.
And slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.
Just enough that his snout hovered a foot from yours. Breath steaming across your chest. Eyes searching.
Something ancient stirred in her blood—something she hadn’t felt since Drogon first let her touch his snout.
Jorah’s voice came soft behind her. “If he survives fire… perhaps he is fire.”
She didn’t reply.
Her dragon stared down the man who called himself Blackfyre—and the man did not blink.
And in that moment, she knew the game had changed.
Daenerys Targaryen’s boots struck the earth with purpose as she dismounted, the weight of her gaze locked on the man standing before her dragon. The breath of Rhaegal still hung thick and steaming in the air between them, his wings half-furled, claws sunk into the cracked soil, chest heaving with restrained fury—or recognition. She didn’t know which unsettled her more.
“Stay behind!” she barked behind her, barely glancing over her shoulder. But she could already hear them—Barristan, Jorah, Grey Worm—boots pounding against stone, voices rising in protest, swords rasping from sheaths in warning.
“Your Grace—don’t!” Jorah’s voice.
“Daenerys!” Ser Barristan’s, harsher, more commanding.
She ignored them.
She walked across the dust and heat as if the dragon at her back weren’t a living weapon, and the man before her weren’t a living challenge to her blood. He stood calm and still, watching her with those cursed pale lilac eyes that mirrored her own too closely for comfort. There was no smugness on his face. No bow. Just quiet knowing. A stillness that dared the storm closer.
“So,” she said first, voice cool and harsh as shattered crystal. “You wanted fire. Was this what you hoped for?”
You tilted your head slightly. “I wanted truth.”
She stopped a pace away, chin raised, silks clinging to her frame as the wind teased the ends of her braids.
“I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Mother of Dragons. Breaker of Chains. And I do not bow to ghosts.”
You smiled faintly. “You are the dragon. I won’t deny it. But your children are confused.”
Behind her, Rhaegal gave a low, huffing growl, shifting his great bulk. His nostrils flared as he sniffed at the air between you, eyes locked like some ancient judgment was being weighed. She glanced at him, briefly, then back at you.
“He doesn’t listen,” she said, a note of hurt lacing her words despite the steel in them. “He always tested me, but he still came when I called. He still answered. He’s mine.”
You took a slow step forward. Not threatening, not sudden. Just enough to draw her full attention—and the dragon’s.
“Some children,” you said softly, “don’t always come running to their mother’s voice.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“And what,” she asked icily, “makes you think he’d ever heed yours?”
You paused. Then:
“I didn’t say he should. I said sometimes… the unruly ones respond better to their father’s hand.”
Her eyes flashed with fury and disbelief. “You dare—”
But she didn’t finish the sentence, because Rhaegal growled again—and moved.
Not toward her.
Not toward you.
But away, wings rising, back legs bracing, tail slashing the ground as he let out a thunderous, guttural scream and launched into the sky in a spray of dust and sand. The Unsullied at his side stumbled back, shouting in Valyrian, struggling with chains that were already broken. In seconds, he was airborne, his vast shadow stretching over both armies.
Daenerys turned on her heel, shouting, “Rhaegal!”
The dragon soared, circling once above her—then peeled off into the sky, banking hard toward the distant rows of your banners. Toward your soldiers. Toward your camp.
“Rhaegal!” she screamed again, voice cracking. Her hair whipped around her face as she stared up, helpless.
You began to walk away.
She turned back toward you, fury rising in her like a wave about to break.
“What did you do?” she demanded. “What did you say to him?”
You paused at your horse, hand resting on the saddle. Then you looked back at her across the wide, scorched earth between you.
“I didn’t say a thing,” you answered evenly. “I only stood still. Sometimes… fire recognizes fire.”
Daenerys trembled, not from fear but something worse—uncertainty. Doubt. Rhaegal had always been volatile, but he’d never abandoned her mid-command. Not like this.
Barristan and Jorah caught up then, breathless. Grey Worm and the Unsullied formed a half-ring behind her, weapons drawn, eyes locked on you.
“What happened?” Barristan hissed, looking from the skies to you, to the still-set expression on Daenerys’s face.
“He left,” she said flatly, coldly, lips barely moving. “He left me.”
You mounted your horse with practiced ease, pausing only to glance skyward.
In the far distance, Rhaegal’s roar echoed across the desert sky like a warhorn.
Daenerys stood still as marble, her breath shallow.
You didn’t look back again. You rode off at a slow, steady pace, vanishing into the dust.
And in the air above, the dragon chose his direction.
The fires in the Great Pyramid burned low that night and silent golden idols watched from the alcoves. The high chamber that once felt like a throne room now felt too cavernous, too quiet. The breeze that drifted through the arched windows carried with it the dry scent of the city’s unrest—burnt oil, spice, sweat, and fear. Outside, Meereen held its breath, unsure if it had just witnessed a miracle… or the beginning of something far worse.
Daenerys sat barefoot on the cool tiles, her knees drawn to her chest, hair cascading down her back in soft, loose waves. She had dismissed most of the Unsullied. Only the core remained—those whose voices she trusted not for flattery, but for truth. Ser Barristan Selmy stood nearest the open window, arms crossed, armor gleaming even in half-light. Jorah Mormont leaned against one of the marble pillars, jaw set in grim thought. Missandei sat on a cushioned bench nearby, robes simple, posture straight, her eyes keen with quiet observation.
For a long time, none of them spoke. The silence itself felt sacred.
Then, finally, Daenerys exhaled and said it aloud.
“He has Rhaegal.”
The words were bitter on her tongue. Unnatural.
No one corrected her.
She looked down at her hands—small, delicate, still callused from the reins, from the sword, from the chains she had both broken and fastened. “I felt him pulling away for months. The more I tried to hold him… the more he twisted free. But I thought it would be me he returned to in the end.”
“He hasn’t bonded to the boy, not fully,” Jorah said cautiously. “The dragon didn’t bow. He didn’t kneel.”
“No,” Barristan interjected with quiet gravity, “but he didn’t burn him either. He could have. Easily. That boy dared him. Invited it. And Rhaegal hesitated.”
Daenerys clenched her jaw. “As if I were the stranger. Not him.”
Missandei’s voice was soft, but clear. “He has the look of your house, Your Grace. It’s not just in his blood. It’s in his presence. The people see it too. In Meereen, they already whisper.”
Jorah grimaced. “That he’s a true dragon. That the fire chose him. That the gods sent him to correct your path. Old blood finds ears fast in desperate places.”
Daenerys’s eyes flashed. “He’s a Blackfyre. The bastard offshoot of traitors. Pretenders.”
“Aye,” Barristan said, stepping forward, “but one who stood alone against your dragon and lived. One with an army at his back. A name. A myth. And now... a creature of legend to follow him.”
A heavy silence pressed again. One Daenerys did not break immediately.
She rose slowly to her feet, barefoot on cold stone, every movement graceful and deliberate.
“This dance is no longer mine to choreograph,” she murmured. “Rhaegal chose the next step.”
“Then what will you do?” Jorah asked, folding his arms. “Attack? Wait? Hope the dragon returns on its own?”
Daenerys walked to the carved lion-headed table and poured herself a cup of water. Her hands were steady, but her voice was not without weight.
“No. He won’t return—not like before. The sky is his now. And the boy knows it.”
Missandei tilted her head. “Then you must control what you still can.”
“I intend to.”
Daenerys turned back to them, posture tall, voice steadier now, colder.
“Send a rider to his camp by dawn. Fly banners of peace. Deliver this message exactly: ‘You sought to challenge my fire. Instead, you gained it. I invite you into my city, and into my pyramid, not as a conqueror… but as one who understands the burden of dragons.’”
Barristan’s brow furrowed. “You would invite him in?”
“I would,” she said, firm now. “Because the dance is no longer between dragons. It’s between those who ride them. And I need to know—truly know—what kind of man he is. Whether he means to rule, to burn, or simply to be seen.”
Jorah stepped closer. “You risk legitimizing him in the eyes of your enemies. You invite doubt.”
“I already have doubt,” she said. “Everywhere I look. My council, my city, my children.”
She let the silence settle once more, then said the final truth, the one she had resisted all day.
“He is a man. He is a Blackfyre. And he now has a dragon. I cannot afford to treat him as a rogue boy playing king. He is no longer a shadow of the past. He is the future, unless I claim it first.”
Missandei bowed her head. “Then we will prepare.”
Daenerys looked out the tall window again, where the moonlight cast faint shadows over the desert beyond.
“Let’s see if he knows how to speak with a queen,” she murmured. “Or only how to challenge one.”
The great bronze gates of Meereen creaked open at dawn, their hinges shrieking like waking giants. Dust curled up from the earth as your column entered the city—tight formation, silent, alert. The people of Meereen watched from behind shuttered balconies and open-air stalls, curiosity and fear mingling on their faces. Some murmured, recognizing your sigil. Others gasped at the sight of the standard that flew beside it, an unmistakable echo of a legacy once thought extinguished.
At the head of your small procession, you rode in silence, hair swept back by the desert breeze, eyes steady and unblinking. You wore no helmet. You wanted them to see your face. A deliberate echo of her. The Targaryen blood was a mirror—and you let it reflect.
Beside and behind you were your three commanders: Ser Marq Rykker, face weathered and hard as hammered steel; Kavos, with his wine-red sash and gaunt features; and Rylas, a Summer Islander with a heavy blade strapped across his back and a gaze that missed nothing. All of them handpicked. All of them bound to you by more than coin.
Grey Worm and his Unsullied waited at the gate—expressionless as ever, spears glinting, sandals silent. He offered no formal greeting, only a curt nod and a sharp motion for your party to follow. No words. Just steel discipline and eyes that never wandered from your hands.
Through the city you rode, following the stone-carved path toward the pyramid. The people parted in silence. You could feel it in the air—the anxiety, the awe, the whispered fear. The dragon boy has come. The other one. You rode through it all with a spine of iron.
The Great Pyramid loomed ahead, monolithic and unforgiving, a ziggurat carved by centuries of empire and revolution. Guards lined the steps, bronzed and still. At the summit, a procession awaited.
You dismounted without flourish, cloak trailing in the dust. Grey Worm motioned to the steps, and you began the slow climb upward, your commanders behind you. You didn’t speak. Not here.
Inside, the hall was vast and hot, its stone walls pulsing with torchlight and the heavy perfume of incense—meant to mask the stink of politics, you imagined. You were brought into the heart of her throne chamber, though the dais bore no iron seat. Just steps, a cushion, and the woman who called herself Queen.
Daenerys Targaryen stood before you. Tall, straight-backed, draped in pale violet and white, her hair braided into a crown. At her flanks: Ser Barristan Selmy, in full polished armor; Jorah Mormont, arms crossed, face coiled in distaste; and Missandei, calm and precise in her posture, hands folded before her.
You stopped before them and said nothing. Neither did she.
Her eyes met yours, and for a long moment, there was nothing but silence.
Then, her voice rang out like cold bells through smoke.
“Prince of nothing. Son of a dead rebellion. The boy who stood before a dragon and lived.”
You offered a slow, shallow nod. “Daenerys Stormborn. Queen of Meereen. The woman who freed the slaves, and now rules over ash and unrest.”
Barristan tensed at your tone. Jorah scowled. But Daenerys lifted her chin, unshaken.
“Why did you come?”
You studied her, taking in every detail—not just the fire in her eyes, but the coiled fatigue beneath it. “Because you invited me. And because Rhaegal made his choice.”
“That dragon was mine long before you ever came here,” she snapped.
“Then why did he leave?” You took one step closer. “Why did he follow me?”
She said nothing. Not immediately.
Behind her, Jorah growled, “Careful, boy.”
You didn’t even look at him. “If you speak again, Mormont, I’ll remind your queen how many times you sold secrets for silver before she knew your name.”
He moved to step forward, but Daenerys raised a single hand.
The chamber stilled again.
You looked back to her, voice lower now, quieter. “I didn’t come to steal your dragon. I didn’t even want him. He came because he saw me. Knew me. Fire to fire.”
“And now you think that makes you my equal?”
You gave a slow smile—not cruel, not mocking. Just inevitable.
“No, Your Grace. I think it makes me your problem.”
Daenerys held your gaze, unmoving. But the tightness at the corners of her mouth betrayed what she didn’t say. She felt it too—that shift in balance, the weight of what Rhaegal had done. This was no longer a battle for armies or cities. This was something older. Something elemental.
Missandei stepped forward, breaking the tension. “The Queen offers hospitality. Shelter. Food. And the chance to speak.”
You nodded once. “Then I accept.”
Daenerys turned without another word and walked toward the back chamber.
She didn’t invite you to follow.
She expected you to.
And you did.
Behind you, your commanders exchanged wary glances with Grey Worm and the others, but none of them moved. They knew. This was not a war fought with swords. This was a dance. And you were already on the floor.
The door shut behind you with a heavy thud of ancient stone, muffling the sounds of the outer chamber. No guards. No attendants. No advisers. Just you and her—two legacies stitched together by war and myth, left alone in the high sanctum of a kingdom teetering on the edge of something new. The air inside was cooler, despite the brazier fire crackling low against the wall. Incense coiled in thin streams toward the carved ceiling, sweet and heady with myrrh and ash bark. A dragon’s scent.
Daenerys didn’t speak at first. She walked past you, slowly, deliberately, until she stood before the tall window cut into the black stone. Her hands rested on the ledge as she looked out over the city. Meereen gleamed under the bruised light of sunset, its streets quiet beneath the shadow of uncertainty.
You watched her in silence. Every inch of her was tension braided into beauty. Silver hair loose down her back now, gown lighter than armor but heavy with the weight of rule. She was barefoot. You hadn't noticed until now. The Mother of Dragons stood barefoot in her own palace, as if trying to feel the pulse of the earth beneath her toes, to anchor herself against the storm you’d brought with you.
“I’ve fought so hard to build something here,” she said at last, her voice soft but brittle. “Fought to be more than my name. More than my blood. And then you walk in—my mirror turned cruel. A reminder of every reason the world fears our kind.”
You stepped forward slowly, unhurried. “I didn’t ask for Rhaegal. I didn’t ask for your city. I came because we’re already written into each other’s stories.”
She turned then. Slowly. Eyes filled with something old and unrelenting—fury, yes, but something deeper too. Recognition. The kind that ran beneath the skin. You saw it in the hard set of her jaw. In the fine tremble of her breath.
“Then tell me what you are,” she said, stepping toward you. “Tell me who you are, truly. Not just a name. Not just Maelys' ghost. What are you?”
You looked her dead in the eye. “I’m fire denied. I’m the blood you tried to forget. I’m the history that survived your father’s madness, your brother’s cowardice, your own exile. And now, I’m here.”
Another step. Now she was close enough to smell—the heady mix of flame and perfume, salt and sweat and something wild. She didn’t flinch when she reached up and touched your chestplate, fingers brushing over the etched sigil of your house.
“And if I strip this from you?” she asked, tone sharpened to a blade. “What’s underneath? Another boy chasing a throne? Another conqueror?”
“Strip it,” you said evenly. “See for yourself.”
Her fingers moved with purpose. The clasps came loose, one by one. The breastplate hit the floor with a solid clang, followed by the weight of your shoulder guards, your cloak. She untied the leather straps of your tunic, not tender, not hesitant—just sure. You let her. You never looked away.
She stepped back once, enough to study what she’d uncovered. Your chest was scarred—burns, cuts, lashes old and faded like history written in flesh. Your skin gleamed under the flickering light, and your eyes never left hers.
Daenerys reached up, took your face in both hands, and kissed you.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t tender.
It was a collision—of bloodlines, of fury, of a century of ghosts breaking against the walls of your mouths. You kissed her back with equal force, hands locking to her hips, drawing her close. Her lips were warm, her breath hot. When you bit down lightly, she groaned against your mouth, nails digging into your jaw—and not once did she pull away.
You undid her dress in silence. Silk fell like water around her feet. No shame. No hesitation. She stood bare before you, regal even now, chin high, daring you to look away.
You didn’t.
She was carved from contradiction—soft curves and hard eyes, long limbs and sharper bones, scars faded beneath her breasts and fire smoldering in her gaze. You didn’t worship her. You didn’t need to. You understood her. And that was enough.
Your hands found her skin. Her breath hitched. She pressed her mouth to your throat, bit down hard enough to mark you. You lifted her in your arms like she weighed nothing, carried her to the cushions that lined the low platform beside the window, where moonlight bled through the stone and cast both your bodies in pale silver.
You didn’t ask permission. She didn’t give it. She wrapped her legs around your waist and pulled you down to her like the gravity between suns.
What followed wasn’t a claiming. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t some political ritual sealed with flesh.
It was war.
Her fingers raked down your back. Your hands gripped her thighs, her hips, her throat. She arched beneath you, bared her teeth, cursed in Valyrian. You kissed the words from her mouth and swallowed the rest. The air turned wet with sweat and salt, with steam from the heat you made between you. No moans. No sweet nothings. Just the raw rhythm of skin and breath and fire.
She clawed at your shoulders. You drove into her like you meant to break bone. She met every thrust with defiance. Matched you, pace for pace, snarl for snarl. She didn’t ask you to be gentle.
And you weren’t.
By the time you were both spent, the night was deep and Meereen lay silent beneath the stars. You lay beside her, her silver hair splayed across your chest, her breath finally even, her skin flushed and warm.
Neither of you spoke.
There was no need.
She reached for your hand. Not to hold it. Just to rest hers beside yours. Close. Equal.
Outside, a dragon screamed into the black sky.
And somewhere in the dust-choked city below, people whispered the beginning of a new age.
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