Sorry, I thought it was just a common cold, but it's gotten worse these past two days. I can't write much. Please bear with me. I'll make up for it as soon as possible in the next few days. Thank you.
She was burning with fever, plagued by nightmares of black shadows with wings.
"You don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath, do you?"
She walked in a long, long hall with high stone arches above. She couldn't turn her head, couldn't look back. Far, far ahead of her was a door, tiny in the distance, but she could still see it was painted red. She quickened her pace, her bare feet leaving bloody prints on the stone floor, one after another.
"You don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath, do you?"
He saw sunlight spilling over the vibrant Dothraki Sea, the air filled with the scent of earth and death. The wind stirred the grass, and the green waves rippled like an ocean. The stars in the sky smiled down on them, the red sun and the falling stars. Suddenly, the stars were gone, huge wings swept across the sky, and the world burst into fire.
"...don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath, do you?"
Ser Jorah's face was gaunt and sorrowful. "Rhaegar was the last True Dragon," he told her, reaching out a translucent hand to warm it over a brazier where several stone eggs lay, glowing red and smoking like coals. One moment he was Flesh and Blood, the next he began to fade, his muscles losing color, more formless than the wind. "The last True Dragon." His voice was a wisp of smoke, then he vanished without a trace. She felt the pressing darkness behind her, and the red door grew ever more distant.
"...don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath, do you?"
Viserion stood before her, screaming shrilly: "You little whore, True Dragons don't grovel! You are not to order the son of a True Dragon around. I am the True Dragon! I will have my Crown!" Melted Gold ran down his face like wax, burning deep gouges. "I am the True Dragon! I will have my Crown!"
"...don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath..."
The red door was far, far away, but she could feel the cold breath of something behind her, closing in. If it caught her, she would be trapped in a place more terrifying than death, forever wailing alone in the endless Pitch Black. So she began to run.
"...don't want to wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath..."
Her son was born tall and strong, with Drogo's bronze skin, her silver-gold hair, and almond-shaped violet Eyes. He smiled at her and reached out to embrace her, but when he opened his mouth, he breathed out a torrent of Flame. She saw his heart burning fiercely in his chest, and in an instant, he vanished without a trace, like a moth drawn to a Flame, consumed by the candle and turned to ash.
"...wake the Sleeping Dragon's Wrath..."
Ghosts lined the sides of the Great Hall, wearing the faded clothes of ancient kings, holding swords of pale Flame. Some had silver heads, some golden, some bright as platinum. Their Eyes were the color of opal, amethyst, tourmaline, and jade. "Quick!" they cried. "Run, run!" She took off running, each step melting the stone floor. "Run!" the ghosts shouted in unison, and she screamed and lunged forward. A sharp pain like a knife slashed across her back. She felt her skin being torn open, smelled the stench of steaming blood, and saw the shadow of enormous wings. Then Daenerys Targaryen flew.
"...wake the Sleeping Dragon..."
The red door loomed before her, closer and closer. The Great Hall blurred around her, the cold air behind her receded, and the stone floor vanished. She flew over the Dothraki Sea, higher and higher, letting the green sea churn below as all creatures on earth fled for their lives beneath the shadow of her wings. She smelled home, saw home. Beyond the door were green fields and stone houses, and the embrace that warmed her heart. It was there. She threw open the door.
"...Sleeping Dragon..."
She saw her Brother Rhaegar, wearing Pitch Black Armor and riding a horse of the same color. Flames burned in the narrow eye-slits of his helmet. "The last True Dragon," Ser Jorah whispered faintly, "the last, the last." Dany lifted his polished black visor to reveal a face that was her own.
After that, for a long, long time, pain, the burning fire inside her, and the whispering stars covered the entire world.
She woke with a start, the taste of ash in her mouth.
"No," she groaned. "No, please!"
"Khaleesi?" Jhiqui leaned closer, like a frightened doe.
The Tents were steeped in shadow, silent and enclosed. Innumerable specks of ash drifted up from the brazier, and Dany's gaze followed them through the smoke vent above. Fly, she thought. I have wings. I can fly. But it was just a bad dream. "Save me," she whispered, struggling to get up. "Please give me..." Her throat was hoarse and stinging. She couldn't remember what she wanted. Why did it hurt so much? She felt as if her body had been torn to pieces and put back together. "I want..."
"Yes, Khaleesi." With that, Jhiqui ran out, shouting loudly, leaving the tent empty. Dany wanted... something... someone... What was it? She knew it was important, the most important thing in the world. She rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows, fighting with the blankets tangled around her feet. Moving was so hard: the whole world was spinning. I must...
When they came in, they found her lying on the carpet, crawling towards the Dragon Eggs. Ser Jorah Mormont picked her up and carried her back to the silk bed. She resisted weakly. From behind his shoulder, she saw her three handmaids, the slightly mustachioed Qhogo, and the flat, broad face of Mirri Maz Duur. "I must," she tried to tell them. "I must..."
"...sleep, Your Highness," Ser Jorah said.
"No," Dany said. "Please, please."
"You must." He covered her with a silk blanket, ignoring her burning skin. "Sleep well, Khaleesi. Get better quickly and come back to us." Then the Maegi, Mirri Maz Duur, appeared. She held a cup to her lips. Dany tasted sour milk, and something else, thick and bitter. The warm liquid flowed down her chin, and she swallowed it numbly. The tent gradually darkened, and she fell asleep again, this time without dreams, drifting on an endless, Pitch Black ocean, peaceful and serene.
After some time—a night, a day, or a year, she didn't know—she woke again. The tent was Pitch Black, and a strong wind blew outside, making the silk curtains flap like wings. This time, Dany didn't struggle to get up. "Irri," she called. "Jhiqui, Doreah." They appeared instantly. "My throat is so dry," she said. "So dry, so dry." So they brought her water. It was warm and tasteless, but Dany drank it greedily and sent Jhiqui for more. Irri soaked a soft cloth and wiped her forehead. "Am I sick?" Dany said. The Dothraki girls nodded. "How long have I been sick?" The wet cloth was soothing, but Irri's expression was so sad that she became afraid. "A long time," the handmaid whispered. When Jhiqui returned with water, the sleepy-eyed Mirri Maz Duur followed her in.
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