The Dothraki began calling me Vezhof Khaleesi.
Blood-twin queen.
It wasn't a title they had used before. The Dothraki did not believe in twins as anything more than an oddity. But Drogo changed that. He saw how I rode beside Daenerys each morning. How the riders glanced at me with respect—not because I fought, but because I watched. Because I understood.
And because Daenerys listened to me more than she did to him.
That, more than anything, earned their respect.
It was Rakharo who first said it aloud.
We were eating near the central fire, Daenerys and I sharing a plate of spiced meat. Rakharo sat across from us, sharpening his blade, and when I reached for Dany's hand to brush a crumb from her cheek, he grinned.
"Two queens," he said in Dothraki. "Blood of blood. One rides the body. The other rides the soul."
Daenerys blinked, unsure if she should be flattered or confused.
I just nodded.
"She is me," I said. "And I am her."
He tilted his head, then laughed, standing and calling it out across the fire: "Vezhof Khaleesi! Twin Queen!"
By morning, the whole khalasar used it.
Drogo said nothing at first.
But when he rode past me that day, he looked down from his horse, stared for a long moment, and then nodded once.
That was all the permission I needed.
The egg cracked two nights later.
Not a full break—just a thin, hairline fracture across the curve, glowing faintly beneath the firelight. I had it cradled in my lap, whispering the old words I had learned in broken Valyrian, when I felt the vibration against my palms.
Thump. Crack. Thump.
I froze.
Daenerys sat up beside me, eyes wide.
"It's happening," I whispered.
She reached out, touched the shell. "Is it supposed to… glow like that?"
The veins of copper across the egg shimmered. They pulsed in time with the heartbeat.
"It's waking," I murmured. "It's coming."
We buried the egg in the embers that night.
A shallow bed of coals, banked just enough to keep the heat. I stayed up beside it, murmuring words older than dragons, older than Valyria. My voice was hoarse by dawn.
Daenerys sat beside me the whole time.
"You're not afraid?" she asked softly.
"No."
"Even though it's fire?"
"I've already burned," I said. "This time, I'm choosing to."
She leaned her head on my shoulder. "I want to see it. I want to see yours fly."
"You will."
Viserys returned to our tent the next morning with madness in his eyes.
He wasn't drunk. He was worse—sober, and furious. His hair was tangled, his cloak dirty. He hadn't shaved in days, and his boots were scuffed like he'd been pacing in circles.
"You've gone too far," he snarled, pointing at me. "They're calling you Khaleesi. You're not even—"
"I'm everything you'll never be," I said calmly.
Daenerys stepped between us before he could move again.
"Enough," she said, voice low. "You will not speak to her like that."
He blinked.
"You forget yourself," he muttered.
She took a step forward.
"I remember myself. I'm the Khaleesi of this khalasar. And she—" Dany turned, reaching for my hand, "—is my blood. My flame. You are nothing but a guest. Behave."
It was the first time she'd ever spoken to him like that.
He left without a word.
Later, she curled beside me on our bedroll, heart still racing.
"I've never said those things before," she whispered.
"You were perfect."
"I felt… brave."
"You are brave."
Her lips brushed my shoulder.
"You make me that way."
The egg cracked again that night.
This time with sound.
Snap.
A sliver of copper peeled away.
A faint cry followed—soft, high, and wet. A sound like something new discovering the world for the first time.
Daenerys gasped.
We watched, hands clasped, as a tiny snout pushed through the shell. Blue-black scales gleamed in the firelight, still slick with afterbirth. Two wings unfolded like torn silk. Eyes opened—golden, bright, ancient.
It looked at me.
And chirped.
I held it in my hands as it wobbled into the world.
Daenerys reached out, awed. "It's beautiful."
"It's ours," I said.
And the little dragon sneezed a spark onto the furs.
We named him Vaedron—Stormborn, in the old tongue.
He was small, no bigger than a kitten, but already quick. He crawled up my shoulder, tail coiling around my neck, wings fluttering as he let out a tiny roar.
Daenerys laughed.
It was the purest sound I'd ever heard.
That morning, Drogo approached as I stood with Vaedron on my arm.
The newborn dragon clung to my shoulder, wings tucked close, golden eyes blinking against the sun. He was quiet now, but smoke still curled faintly from his tiny nostrils.
Drogo slowed when he saw us.
He said nothing at first. Just looked—long and hard. His gaze traveled from the dragon, to me, to Daenerys standing proudly at my side.
One of his bloodriders muttered a word in Dothraki I didn't recognize. Another crossed himself.
But Drogo stepped closer.
"Fire… beast," he said at last, voice low and rough.
"Dragon," I answered in his tongue.
He reached out slowly—carefully—and Vaedron hissed, puffing a little ember into the air.
Drogo pulled his hand back. Not in fear.
In respect.
"This is… old magic," he said, mostly to himself.
"It is our magic," I replied. "Blood of my blood."
He met my eyes for a long moment.
Then, to everyone's surprise—including mine—he dropped to one knee.
Not in worship. Not in weakness.
But in solemn recognition.
He pressed his fist to his chest and said, "You. Blood of sky. Fire woman. Blood of my blood."
Then he rose, turned, and walked away into the camp without another word.
The bloodriders stood in stunned silence.
Daenerys exhaled softly. "What does it mean?"
I watched his silhouette disappear into the rising heat.
"It means," I said, smiling faintly, "he finally believes."
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