Pain.
Searing, white-hot pain.
A burning agony so intense it felt like a sharp blade scraping bare bone.
Beads of sweat erupted on Daenerys's forehead. A scream built in her throat, and she almost yanked her hand back from the fire. But she fought the impulse down. She held her palm steady over the dancing, elusive flames. Her motor nerves and muscles were not contracting; her slender white fingers were not charring and curling like roasted chicken feet.
She had succeeded. She had inherited her predecessor's true gift: she was the Unburnt.
"Fire is power," she whispered, her voice tight with the effort of enduring the burn. Now, she could proceed with her plan.
The original Daenerys had always known she was unusually resistant to heat, but she had never dared to test herself with open flames. The time she walked into the pyre to hatch the dragons had been an act of ultimate, grief-stricken desperation. Because while her flesh was immune to the damage of fire, her nerves still screamed with all the pain of a normal person being burned alive.
"I am not afraid of pain," Dany told herself, her voice a low, fierce hiss.
She pushed her hands directly into the bed of bright red charcoal, the way one might bury sweet potatoes to roast. "I'm not afraid of pain," she repeated, over and over, hoping to hypnotize herself, to find a place in her mind beyond the agony.
Sweat soaked her silver hair, dripping down onto the pillow and the furs beneath her.
She endured it for what felt like half the night, drifting in a hazy state between consciousness and oblivion. Licking her dry, cracked lips, she finally retracted her 'charcoal-grilled' hands and nudged the sleeping form of Irri, who had rolled halfway off the bed. The Dothraki girl had unconsciously moved away from the intense heat of the bonfire.
"Khaleesi?" Irri woke instantly, alert and ready. She was a good maid.
"Water," Dany rasped, her throat raw.
"From the river, Khaleesi?" Irri hesitated.
Dany paused, remembering. The Dothraki rarely stored or drank fresh water. "No, never mind. Bring me two skins of mare's milk."
The horse-people seldom drank water. As nomads without fixed, safe water sources, drinking from an unknown river was a gamble with sickness and death. They were accustomed to quenching their thirst with milk and fermented kumiss, much like medieval Europeans had relied on low-alcohol wine when water was unsafe to drink.
She gulped down nearly a liter of the mare's milk. It was thick and smelled of horse, but as it soothed her raw throat, she felt a profound comfort, as if she were being reborn.
"Irri, add more wood to the fire," she said, pointing a soot-stained finger toward the pile in the corner.
"But Khaleesi, your hair is soaked with sweat. Are you not too hot?"
"It's fine," she waved her hand dismissively. "The sweat feels good."
As the flames began to eagerly lick at the fresh firewood, Dany gave Irri her own blanket. "Find a cooler place to sleep, where you will be more comfortable."
When Irri had settled and fallen back asleep, Dany lay down on her wool blanket once more. This time, she simply rested her two slender, bare feet directly on the burning woodpile. The initial touch of the flames made her hiss between her teeth, but after a moment, she fell into a deep, exhausted daze.
In her sleep, she came to a strange and magnificent place. Four colossal pillars of fire stood around her, holding up a sky that was itself a roiling sea of flame. She wandered through it, feeling a strange mix of agony and ecstasy. After an unknowable amount of time, a great black shadow fell over her.
She looked up, and her breath was stolen away.
A giant dragon, its scales as black as polished jet, stared down at her with eyes like pools of molten lava. Its head was the size of a small mountain, its wings so vast they blotted out the fiery sky.
The old Daenerys had been a passive recipient of these dragon dreams, but this Dany was different—her thinking was sharper, her actions more purposeful. She had put the eggs against her skin and deliberately burned herself not just to test her limits, but to achieve a greater goal: to resonate with the souls of the dragons.
She had to become their mother. In this cruel, unforgiving world, survival without them was impossible.
So after a single moment of terror, she joyfully opened her arms wide in a gesture of welcome. "Are you the black dragon?" she shouted into the dream. "I am your mother! Remember me. Speak to me every day. And where are your brothers? The white and the green, where are they?"
BOOM.
The dragon opened its mouth—a cavern large enough to drive a carriage through—and a torrent of blood-red fire and thick black smoke erupted, completely engulfing her. She felt her skin char and blacken, the dead flesh peeling away in sheets. Her blood boiled and evaporated. But unlike the pain of the firewood, this was different. There was no agony, only an intense, purifying sensation of being washed, tempered, and forged anew. She felt her body grow stronger, more solid, as if she were truly being reborn in dragonfire.
At the same time, information flooded her mind, a sudden and intuitive understanding. Three truths about the Mother of Dragons settled into her soul.
First, The Unburnt: Ordinary fire would cause her pain, but it could not harm her flesh. Fire was her ally.
Second, Dragon Hatching: She could imbue dragon eggs—even ancient fossils—with flame and her own spiritual essence, allowing the souls within to awaken and hatch.
Third, The Dragon Dream: She and the dragons were two parts of a single whole. Their souls could merge seamlessly, and in sleep, she could resonate with them, see through their eyes, and feel their thoughts.
"At this moment," she murmured in the dream, "I am the complete Daenerye Targaryen."
With that, she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.
The next morning, she was awakened by Irri's horrified shriek.
"Khaleesi! Khaleesi, are you alright? Oh, I slept too deeply, I didn't hear you call for help! Forgive me, Khaleesi, forgive me!"
Dany opened her eyes to see the Dothraki girl sobbing in terror, staring at her legs, which were still buried in the gray ashes of the firepit.
"Uhh…" Dany blinked, shaking off the last remnants of sleep. She calmly lifted her legs from the ashes and showed them to the little maid.
The skin was white and delicate, completely unharmed. Except for the black stains from the soot, they were perfect.
"How…?" Irri asked, her eyes wide with shock and awe.
"I am a Targaryen of the Storm," Dany said, her voice even and full of a new authority. "I am of the true blood of the dragon."
"But… your brother," Irri stammered, pouting in confusion as she remembered the other "true dragon," Viserys, who had been killed so easily by a pot of molten gold.
Dany simply smiled. "You will understand later. For now, help me dress."
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES