The Dragon's Blood: Game of Thrones S9

[Arceus 1,081]

Though the snow swirled around her, she couldn't feel the cold. Peace settled on her like snow might blanket the fields, as one porcelain hand raised to brush the tufts of white as they drifted down. She blinked instinctively as violet eyes noted the close proximity of a bit of snow, but they fell into her lashes and vanished seconds later. Snow... There was something to be remembered about snow, though the young woman couldn't recall what that was now. She didn't have time to muse on it. Someone called her name across the white expanse. No, that wasn't her name. And still, so it was.
"Khaleesi!" The sound was so slight, the voice so distant, Daenerys almost didn't hear it. The title brought back pain, but she couldn't recall now what the pain was about. Involuntarily, she winced. "Khaleesi!" The voice was louder, closer - "Khaleesi!" - just behind her - she whirled around to face it, and for a painful, never-ending moment she hardly recognised the woman that spoke. Swirls of charcoal hair framed the woman's face, copper skin slightly dusted with the sand the Dothraki bathed in. Daenerys' face scrunched in disbelief.
"Irri?" she asked.
"Of course, Khaleesi," Irri replied.
"A Khal must always have their bloodriders, too," a male voice said. Daenerys' violet gaze was drawn away from Irri's soft features to the male suddenly now standing beside her; Daenerys' heart twisted in her chest as she recognised Rakharo. "Ser Jorah is waiting, and a frizzy haired girl from somewhere called Naath."
Jorah. Missandei. Why didn't they hate her? All of that time and that work, she'd wasted their lives on her stupid childish dreams of a world where slavery didn't exist, and the poor weren't killed just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She didn't even achieve that much, that world she'd dreamed of had been so close, and ripped away from her as soon as she'd believed in it too hard. So what was the point, then? The distress was plain to see on her face, and Daenerys bowed her head. "I can't," she whispered, shaking her head. "I can't face them." Loose wispy waves of silver fell into her face. Her braids were gone.
The whole world knew her shame.
"Khaleesi, you didn't waste our lives," Irri said. "We died in service of our khal, and our khalasar. It is the highest honour, this is known."
"It is known," Rakharo echoed softly.
"We believed in you. And you believed in that world you wanted." Irri reached out, resting her hand gently on Daenerys' arm. Daenerys both did and did not feel the contact. The confusion blossomed across her face, but yet soon was gone. "Come," Irri said, her hand dropping to Daenerys', tugging the young woman toward what was now a flickering campfire. "There is mud and ash in your hair."
Daenerys didn't have the heart to argue, anymore. Some corner of her mind wondered when Irri and Rakharo had learned to read her mind, but perhaps they were simply very close to her. Jorah, at times, had seemed able to read her mind, and yes, she'd loved him. He'd been with her since the beginning. He watched her grow her wings, and helped her learn to use them.
Laughter sounded from the crackling fire in the distance. It seemed to take so long to reach that fire, and yet no time at all. Daenerys smiled as she approached, apprehensive. Jorah and Missandei were telling stories.
"Tyrion was staring at him," Missandei said, "and then he said, 'I make joke.' I couldn't stop laughing."
Daenerys looked perplexed. Who did Missandei mean, but Grey Worm? She did not remember him being the type to joke. Oh, but Missandei had watered the small seed of joy in Grey Worm's heart, and it had begun to grow into a tree. Now she was gone, and maybe, so was the tree.
"Your grace!" Hurriedly, Missandei stood, shuffling to Daenerys. "Your hair is a mess," Missandei said, moving behind her. The other woman suddenly had a brush in her hand, as did Irri, though Daenerys never saw either of them pick one up.
"Caked with mud and ash," Irri repeated. Missandei took one side, Irri the other. "We'll have your braids redone soon."
"No," Daenerys said, instantly. "No, I have no right to braids, anymore."
"Khaleesi -" Irri started.
"No," Daenerys repeated, more firmly. "I lost a battle." She turned to look up at Rakharo, but beside her, it was not Rakharo. Standing there was Drogo, and Daenerys squeezed her eyes closed, clenched her fists at her sides, and turned her head down. "I lost," she whispered. She thought for sure he'd be angry, or scream at her, or agree with her, tell her she did lose, she lost that battle, and to shame, it was so shameful - but no. Even as she stood there, Irri and Missandei's fingers still gently entangled in her hair, trying so hard not to cry, because she'd made it this far with her head held high, she could feel up watching her.
"All great warriors," Drogo said, "someday lose. That is why the Night Lands are here. You are home now, moon of my life. You are home." He moved around her, strong arms wrapping her in his embrace, and holding her. Somewhere in between his words and his embrace, Irri and Missandei had backed away.
"Khaleesi," another voice said, and Daenerys opened her eyes, peeking around Drogo's large frame to rest her eyes on Jorah. "It was not an honourable battle, Khaleesi."
No, it wasn't, was it? Why wasn't it? What was so unfair about it? How did Jorah know?
"Jon Snow is easily swayed a man, in this," Jorah said.
Daenerys' eyes widened. Yes. Jon Snow. He killed her. It was him. And oh, the vibrant sting of betrayal and loss returned anew, and Drogo's arms tightened around her.
"You are home, now," he said again. "You belong to the Night Lands. We will rebuild our khalasar here, and we will be in death as we should have been in life."
But no one was there to burn her body. Would her khalasar have done so? She didn't remember any of them being very close to her, since her bloodriders were gone and Irri, too. How was she in the Night Lands? There was something wrong. Something felt wrong, and Daenerys couldn't quite say what it was. How utterly... frustrating. She'd forgotten something else. She'd remembered Jon Snow, though; she'd remember that, too. Instead of worrying about it too much, she nodded mutely against Drogo's chest.
"Rhaego will return soon," Drogo said.
"Rhaego?" Daenerys asked.
"He is learning to track with his bloodriders," Drogo replied.
"He is but an infant," Daenerys said.
"No," Drogo answered. "He is growing. Rhaego will soon be twelve summers."
That long had passed? Daenerys stepped backwards, uncertain gaze searching Drogo's. She saw no lie. Her small baby, whom was never destined to grow up, had become a young boy, a future she'd believed had been torn from him. Something hurt. Another twist in her heart, sharp and sudden and real, jolted through her. Daenerys let go of Drogo, pressing her hands to her chest.
"Khaleesi?" It was Irri that asked, but Drogo's hands rested gently against her jaws.
Come back, a small, tiny voice in her heart whispered. Don't leave me.
Daenerys raised her head, staring into Drogo's eyes again. The light from the fire flickered and danced in the obsidian of his gaze, beautiful and strong and mysterious. Just like... "With scales that sparkle like your eyes..."
Drogo looked confused. Jorah answered him. "Drogon."
"Drogon," Daenerys murmured.
He's gone now, the voice urged. It's safe. Come back.
"I'm sorry, my sun-and-stars," Daenerys said. "But I can't stay here."
"No one leaves the night lands," Drogo said, his tone perplexed and perhaps a bit concerned.
Daenerys grimaced at another twist in her chest, one hand reaching up to brush gently against Drogo's cheek. "I am all he has left," she said. "I can't leave him. Drogon needs me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't stay. I have failed too many of you already. I cannot fail Drogon. The sun still does not set in the east, and rise in the west."
She blinked, and they were gone. It was silent, and dark. The fire wasn't there anymore, its crackling silenced. "... Drogo?" she called. Her own voice answered her, echoing through the blackness. Swirls of shadow tangled at her feet. "Missandei? Irri!" They'd been there once, where had they gone? No. No, she needed to find Drogon, not them. "Drogon!"
To her right, a draconic shriek sounded. Daenerys whirled around to face it. It, too, echoed through the darkness, and it was hard to determine where it'd come from exactly. It was just as dark over there as it was anywhere else. "Drogon, Drogon I'll follow your voice! Where are you?"
Come, the voice urged. Another shriek reverberated and died in the shadows. Daenerys started to walk towards it. Don't leave me.
"I won't leave you, I promise. Drogon, I'm coming!" Her steps became heavier. Her body became heavier, and it was harder to walk, but Drogon never stopped chittering. She could feel him calling her to him.
Mother, come home.
With a loud gasp, she awoke, breath coming in rapid bursts, and her eyes snapped opened to see scales that sparkled with the blackness of Drogo's gaze.

---

This is specifically based on the HBO series, and basically I tried to... start fixing it. It was kind of a personal challenge, because it was like "Okay, can I salvage this utter train wreck and make it less disappointing?" I needed to do something with this septic tank of bad writing or I was never going to be free of the bitterness.

 

What I can’t tell you, is if I’m going to keep going on it. Not sure if I want to or not. Like on one hand yes, but on another not really. If I do, comeuppance will be gotten. Girl-power will be restored. And there will be dragons. Probably more than Drogon.

 

Season eight of Game of Thrones made me so mad that I broke my silent internal vow to never write in fandoms whose authors don't condone fanworks, you guys. I'm so mad. But honestly, this is probably one of my best pieces funny enough. I really am powered by salt, I guess.