Perhaps that was what the mother of dragons had not wanted to admit to herself, but even as the heels of her thick boots sank into the sands of her birthplace, she knew it was the truth. TWO DRAGONS LEFT, in all the world. Two. It was not the first time that the loss of a child had been known to her; but this was not the same. Her birth son had been taken from her before she had ever truly known him. This was a creature who had fed at her breast, who had been loving and sweet. The most gentle of all three children. The opposite of his name sake.
All three of them had been so distinct, in appearance and in personality. The green and bronze dragon, named for the baby she’d lost and the brother she’d never known, loyal by nature, but playful, mischievous, always testing the limits with his brothers. The largest, by far, named for the husband who had loved her so fiercely and protected her from harm. Like his namesake, Drogon had never allowed any degree of harm to come to her. Laced with the colours of her house, it was no secret that he was the child she was closest to, of all of them. He seemed to sense where she was at all times, and came to her in times of need – the only one of her children who allowed her to ride him. The leader of his brothers, almost the Alpha, and he’d chosen her as his rider. The bond between them was utterly unbreakable. The Targaryen loved all of her children, but he was her equal, her mount, the other half of her soul. And then there was Viserion.
The smallest of her children, and the sweetest. Cream and gold – in some ways, so distinct from his brothers, who were always bickering. All he had craved from her was affection, evident in the way he nuzzled his features against her. Even so recently, despite how grown up they were, all it took was being in his presence for him to brush his snout to her petite body, to nuzzle her in the way he had when he was still a baby. Of course, they all did on occasion; but he had never hesitated to be affectionate with her.
And in his dying moments, oh he had screamed for his mother.
Sleep had scarcely come to her for the entirety of the trip back to Dragonstone. Exhaustion laced every weary bone of her body, seeming to still feel the weight of the battle and the lack of adrenaline from how nonstop that had been. At the time, it had just been about going, going, going – and now that she’d had time to stop, the memories were deafening. Every night, his scream replayed to her over and over again, seeing the way his brother chased him all the way down as he fell, hearing the cries of her remaining children as they called out to him. There was nothing more the mother of dragons wished than being able to go back in time, to make sure he knew he was so very loved and to be able to comfort him, hold him in his last moments, instead of having him leave this world in pain and terrified.
Making her way across the sands of the beach, it took everything to keep the tears at bay as the remaining two creatures soared above their grieving mother, the absence of the third silhouette so painfully obvious. It had been worth it to save the Northern chosen ruler, she knew, and every battle had a sacrifice. But she had so vehemently believed there was no risk to her children that it hadn’t even been a consideration to her.
Amethyst hues settling on the small figure at the base of the stairs, Daenerys could only manage three words as she closed the distance between them, grief and devastation shattering every syllable.
“You were right.” // @impervious-wit
