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Chapter 67 – "Mother of Dragons"
Daenerys Targaryen POV
Daenerys Targaryen had been twenty years old when she was sold like chattel across the Narrow Sea — silver hair brushed, violet eyes studied like precious gems, paraded before Khal Drogo like a broodmare. Her brother Viserys had called it a bargain. A crown for a queen's body.
But marriage to Drogo had not broken her. In time, it had shaped her.
The man who barely spoke, who saw the world through battle and blood, had become her sun-and-stars. And Daenerys — so small, so frightened — learned to ride, to command, to speak Dothraki. Learned to be Khaleesi.
She had stood in silk when Viserys demanded his crown and watched him die with silver melting into his skull. Her brother's screams had not haunted her. Not even once. He was not a dragon.
She remembered the moment when she had known it — "Fire cannot kill a dragon."
---
Months passed like wind over the plains. The Dothraki rode west, victorious, their Khaleesi at their head. Her belly grew with Rhaego, the Stallion Who Mounts the World. The tribe adored her. The handmaidens worshiped her.
She fed on horseheart, drank the blood, and laughed at their shock.
But fate does not bend to prophecy without a price.
When Drogo fell, wounded from a petty scuffle, Daenerys tried everything. She brought him healers. When they failed, she brought Mirri Maz Duur, a woman of blood and shadow.
Magic has its own cost.
When the ritual ended, Drogo lived, but as a hollow shell — a breathing corpse, soulless and lost. Her son Rhaego — stillborn, twisted, monstrous.
Dany's screams echoed across the Dothraki Sea that night.
And when the sun rose, the Khaleesi walked into her husband's funeral pyre. She placed his body upon the flames, along with the three stone dragon eggs that had followed her from the wedding.
She did not burn
The fire crackled behind her as bones turned to ash and a screamless night stretched across the red horizon. Her silver hair danced with the rising heat. Around her, stunned silence reigned. Not even a horse dared neigh.
When Daenerys stepped forward from the funeral pyre — naked, unburnt, crowned in flame — the world changed.
Three dragons clung to her shoulders and arms, newborn yet ancient in their gaze. Their tiny roars were sharp as knives, and their wings smelled of smoke and the old Valyria.
Someone fell to their knees.
Then another.
And then all.
"Khaleesi…" Jhiqui whispered in disbelief.
Irri clutched her chest, trembling. "She… she is fire-made flesh."
"She is no ordinary blood of my blood," Rakharo murmured in awe. "She is the dragon reborn."
Daenerys turned to them. Eyes no longer soft. No longer uncertain. "I am the blood of the dragon," she said, her voice calm and regal, as her ancestors once spoke from the steps of the Dragonpit. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the last dragon, and you are my khalasar."
Not one dared doubt her.
---
The Days After
They traveled the red wastes for weeks. Sun overhead. Death at their heels. The dragons cried for meat, and food ran thin. Every second man lost his strength. But Daenerys kept walking — barefoot if she had to. Holding her people together with fire in her veins and a will forged in loss.
"Why do you follow her?" a sickened rider once whispered to Ser Jorah.
"Because she never stops walking," Jorah answered. "Not even when her legs bleed."
---
Qarth
The city of splendor opened its gates — not for a beggar queen, but for a living myth.
They called her Mother of Dragons, and bowed low before her.
Xaro Xhoan Daxos offered her wine and pearls, rubies and a palace.
Pyat Pree, the warlock, offered secrets and shadows.
And the Thirteen offered alliances sealed with lies.
But Daenerys watched them all with quiet disdain.
---
Inside Her Chambers, One Night in Qarth
Ser Jorah stood beside her window, looking out over the city.
"You've changed," he said.
Daenerys fed Drogon a strip of lamb. The hatchling snapped it greedily.
"Good," she replied. "The girl who trembled on her wedding night is dead."
He looked at her — silver hair wild, eyes glowing in the firelight.
"People fear you now."
"They should," she said.
---
Later That Night, in the Camp
Rakharo told tales around the fire.
"Did you see her walk through the flames? Not a scream. Not a burn!"
"Witchfire," muttered one old rider.
"She's no witch," said Irri firmly. "She's a dragon. And dragons do not burn."
---
After Robbing Xaro and Leaving Qarth
Her people sailed with stolen gold, stolen ships, and hope newly born.
Ser Jorah spoke with her as they looked out over the sea.
"You've made enemies, Khaleesi."
"I've made dragons," she said. "Let the enemies come."
"You could return to Westeros now."
"No," she said, quiet and cold. "Not yet. I will gather fire first. Burn the world clean."
---
Arrival at Astapor
As her ships pulled into the blood-red harbors of Astapor, the Unsullied stood like statues behind walls of bronze and filth.
Drogon snarled as he smelled the air. Smoke, piss, iron, and rot.
Dany's lips tightened.
Behind her, Ser Jorah whispered, "This is not a place of honor."
"No," Daenerys agreed. "But it is a place of power."
She turned to her people. They looked tired. Scarred. But alive — because of her.
"I will buy them," she said. "I will buy the Unsullied. All of them."
Jorah frowned. "They are slaves."
"Not for long," Dany said, eyes locked on the slavers across the square. "They will be mine — and I will make them free."
---
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