I was twenty-six when I died.
Not in any grand way—no blaze of glory, no tragic accident, no noble sacrifice. I died in my sleep, after months of sickness that hollowed out my bones and filled my chest with sand. The last thing I remembered was coughing up blood into a tissue and thinking, vaguely, I never got to see the dragons fly again.
Then there was warmth.
Not the gentle warmth of bedcovers, but something deeper. Womb-warm. Fluid and close. A heartbeat not my own thundered all around me, and I felt… strange. Small.
There was no pain. No fear. Just pressure. Tightness. And then—
Light.
Cold.
Noise.
I screamed.
And then I heard her.
Another cry. Softer, thinner. A baby's wail, high and weak, but still defiant. And something in me—something buried, human and primal—snapped into place.
My twin.
They named me Aelya.
Her name was Daenerys.
I remembered enough, even then. The sharp cut of the name. The show. The books. The bloody tragedy of House Targaryen. The madness. The fire.
And the dragons.
When they pressed us into the same cradle in that cold stone room—Dragonstone, though I didn't yet know it by name—I reached out for her. My tiny hand brushed her arm.
She turned toward me, sniffling softly.
And I swore, with all the power a newborn soul could muster: I will protect you.
The storm that destroyed the fleet the night we were born was spoken of for years after. It tore ships apart like paper, drowned lords and soldiers, and left Dragonstone half-ruined. But we lived.
Our mother, Rhaella Targaryen, did not.
We never knew her. I only learned her name from whispers, years later. She died birthing us, already broken from fleeing Robert's Rebellion. Her last act was giving the world two last Targaryens.
No—three.
Viserys.
Our elder brother. Golden-haired and sharp-tongued. A boy of eight when we were born. A boy who grew up believing a crown had been stolen from his cradle.
He hated us both.
We did not remain on Dragonstone for long. Before I was old enough to sit upright, we were carried across the Narrow Sea, hidden on merchant ships and smuggled into the free cities like precious cargo.
Illyrio Mopatis took us in when I was barely walking.
He was kind, in the oily way of men with too much coin and not enough conscience. He fed us, clothed us, protected us. But even as a toddler with a mind that remembered two lifetimes, I knew what we were.
Political chips.
Symbols. Claims.
Illyrio didn't care for the people we were. He cared for what our names could buy.
By the time I could speak fluently in Valyrian and read by candlelight, I had already begun my quiet work.
I made sure Illyrio liked me.
Not by fawning—he hated that—but by being clever. I'd "accidentally" quote histories from his library, show an interest in merchant ships, ask questions about Essosi nobility. He thought I was a bright child.
He was right. But not in the way he imagined.
I remembered every map. Every location where dragon eggs were rumored to have surfaced—old Valyria, Qarth, even caves in Asshai. I knew the eggs weren't extinct.
Just forgotten.
And I would find them.
Dany grew more delicate by the year.
She was beautiful, even as a child—pale as milk, hair like woven silver, and those eyes. Violet and bright. She laughed like bells in the wind when I teased her, and clung to me when the world felt too big.
We shared a bed most nights. She always curled toward me in her sleep, small hands bunching my nightgown like I might float away without her.
Viserys hated it.
"She needs to grow up," he sneered one day when we were six. "You coddle her like a servant. She's a Targaryen. A dragon."
"She's my sister," I said, cool and even.
"She's mine to command," he snapped.
That was the day I realized Viserys wasn't just bitter.
He was dangerous.
The first time he slapped Daenerys, she was seven.
She'd spilled ink on one of his old books—nothing valuable. A travelogue about Valyria that I'd already read and memorized. But he'd been drinking that day, and when she gasped and backed away, he followed.
I was in the doorway.
I grabbed his wrist before it could fall again.
He was shocked—no one had ever stopped him before. His eyes bulged like a fish, his mouth moving soundlessly. Then he screamed, red-faced, and tore away from me, ranting about how he was the king, the true king, and we were nothing.
But that was the last time he hit her.
Because I started watching him. Closely. And he knew it.
By the time we were ten, Dany and I were inseparable. We had secret words between us, gestures no one else understood. She still cried sometimes when Viserys yelled, but she didn't flinch anymore.
Because I was always there.
At night, we read by candlelight. I taught her things the septas wouldn't: how to read a trade contract, how to spot lies in body language, how to listen without seeming to.
"You're too smart," she whispered once. "Like… like you already know everything."
I smiled and brushed her hair behind her ear. "I just read a lot."
But the truth was: I did know everything.
And that terrified me.
Sometimes I'd lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what would happen if I changed too much. If I stopped certain deaths. If I stole a dragon egg that wasn't mine. If I saved someone fated to die.
Would the world break?
Would Dany?
But then she'd roll over and press her forehead to mine, and whisper, "Are you awake?"
"Yes," I'd whisper back.
And she'd smile, soft and sleepy. "Good. I hate sleeping alone."
So I stopped worrying.
Whatever happened, we would face it together.
When I turned eleven, I asked Illyrio for a tutor in ancient Valyrian.
Not the polished version we spoke in court, but the old tongue—draconic, guttural, the language of fire and stone. He was surprised, even wary, but I played the part of the curious noble girl, interested in Targaryen legacy.
He gave in.
My teacher was a bent old woman with teeth like brown pearls and eyes that didn't blink enough. She smelled like ink and smoke and slept sitting up.
But she taught me the old spells.
The words used to bind dragons.
The words used to wake them.
I began writing letters under false names, using Illyrio's seal. Quiet inquiries to merchants, collectors, and tomb raiders across the east. I posed as a rich eccentric looking to build a dragon-themed museum.
Three months later, a response came from a spice trader near the ruins of Elyria.
He had something he called "a stone egg." Heavy. Warm to the touch on certain nights.
I smiled.
The first step.
That night, I sat with Daenerys in the garden under the moonlight. Her head rested on my lap as I braided her silver hair, fingers moving in slow, practiced motions.
"You've been busy lately," she murmured.
"Have I?"
"You're always reading. Whispering with Illyrio. Writing letters."
I paused. "Does it bother you?"
"No," she said quickly, sitting up. "I just… I don't want you to go somewhere without me."
I cupped her face. "Never."
Her cheeks flushed pink.
She looked away, lips parting like she wanted to say more—but the words didn't come. Instead, she leaned her head back against me, her breath soft and steady.
And I sat there, stroking her hair, thinking of dragons.
Thinking of fire.
Thinking of war.
And smiling.
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