"Aww~~~~~~~!" Priestess Lhaza screamed as the flames consumed her, her voice rising sharp and thin into the night. The shriek was wild, almost inhuman, cracking with agony.
She wasn't as strong as she had always claimed. For all her bravado, for all her speeches about vengeance and gods, in the end, her flesh burned, and her spirit faltered.
Daenerys Targaryen sat cross-legged beside Khal Drogo's still body. With steady hands she cast the torch into the pyre.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Pale-blue tongues of fire leapt along the slick trails of scented oil, racing like serpents across the wood. The perfumed oils caught first, the twigs and dry hay snapping in an instant. In mere moments the thick logs began to roar and crackle, smoke curling skyward.
Heat washed over the assembled crowd, at first gentle as a lover's touch, soft as a warm summer breeze. But the caress soon sharpened, turning brutal, searing. The fire grew ravenous, transforming from serpents into dragons, roaring upward, clawing at the night.
The gathered riders and slaves felt the inferno's breath against their skin, heard its voice in the snapping of branches and the hiss of oil-soaked silk. To them it was a beast alive, a predator made of fire and hunger.
Ser Jorah Mormont could not tear his eyes from the blaze. Every crack of timber was like a heartbeat, every roar like a dragon's cry. Yet above it all rang the song of Mirri Maz Duur.
At first her voice was strong, rising above the flames as if to deny them, as if to drown her fear in sound. She sang shrill and fierce, her notes like knives, but as the fire grew taller, hungrier, her strength waned. Smoke clawed down her throat. Her song broke into sharp coughs, ragged gasps. The singing turned to weeping, the weeping to screams, then to a thin keening that dwindled like a dying flame.
The smell of charred meat rolled across the onlookers, thick and greasy, clinging to their tongues. It was too close to horseflesh roasting on an open fire. Too close to human flesh. Jorah gagged. His stomach turned, and he doubled over, retching into the dirt.
The pyre was alive now. The cross-shaped structure had become a raging dragon of flame, its body writhing, its breath devouring the sky. A tongue of fire licked high into the blackness, as if tasting the stars. Embers swirled upward in the infernal wind, glowing red and gold, drifting off like a thousand newborn fireflies.
The horsemen fell back, coughing, shielding their faces from the choking smoke. Even hardened Dothraki, who had seen battles and massacres, stepped away from this fire. It was no ordinary pyre. It was something older, something otherworldly.
But Daenerys remained.
Nestled in the very heart of the pyre, she seemed untouched. Her painted vest, her sandals, even her hair smoked and smoldered, yet her eyes were steady. Her mind turned inward, mocking the priestess's futile screams.
Her gaze dropped to the black dragon egg in her arms.
It pulsed with heat — hotter than the flames, hotter than her own skin. So fierce was the burn that her fingers twitched, her body urging her to fling it away.
But Dany did not yield. She closed her eyes, forcing herself into a dragon dream.
---
The Dragon Dream
The principle was simple yet profound: Daenerys and the dragon's soul becoming one.
Her own soul was whole — one complete essence. Joined with the dragon's spirit, the equation remained whole: dragon's soul + Dany's soul = one. But a greater, stronger one.
(P.S. Martin never details dragon dreams, so this explanation borrows from wolf dreams and warg spirits.)
Her vision shifted. She was no longer a girl in fire. She was a dragon's spirit soaring above a blood-red inferno.
Before her loomed the Black Dragon, vast as a mountain, wings blotting out sun and sky. It opened its great maw, raised its head, and roared.
From the heavens came light. Thousands upon thousands of points, tiny stars of every shade — gold, green, silver, crimson, violet — fell in rivers, streaming into the dragon's throat. Like fireflies in a summer night, but endless, eternal.
"This is…" Dany gasped within the dream. And then it struck her like lightning: "This is hatching dragons!"
At once she willed her magical sight open, consulting her inner panel. There it was — her bloodline gift as Dragon Mother.
Hatching Dragons: Imbue fossilized eggs with flame and ectoplasm, allowing dragon life to awaken within.
"What is ectoplasm?" she wondered.
The answer flooded her mind unbidden: ectoplasm was the living essence of the soul. The substance that lingered within life, the breath of spirit itself. In a world without reincarnation or underworld, ectoplasm was the raw material of existence. From it, new life could spark in organic flesh.
A newborn babe, she now understood, was soul and body entwined. Flesh came from its parents. But the spark of soul — that came from the heavens, from the gathered essence of spirit.
Her dragon eggs — gifts from Magister Illyrio — had long since fossilized, mere stone after millennia. Beautiful, yes, but lifeless.
But Daenerys Targaryen was no ordinary girl. She was blood of Valyria, blood of the dragon, a living anomaly — perhaps even a freak of destiny. Her very body, her very presence, infused those eggs unconsciously, dripping spiritual essence into dead stone until it stirred.
The Mother of Dragons.
Maybe no other Valyrian had ever carried such a gift. Maybe she was unique in the history of her people.
She had never consciously nurtured this gift. She had only hoped, half-believing, half-praying, that her eggs might one day crack. But tonight was no place for half measures. Tonight demanded action.
"Big Black," she called to the great shadow overhead. "Let me help you."
At once, her perspective shifted. She was no longer gazing at the dragon — she was astride it. Seated on its vast neck, scales like black jade beneath her.
And then they merged. Girl and beast became one. Dragon and rider, spirit and flesh, flame and essence. A single being reborn in fire.
Light gathered in torrents. The black dragon roared, and a swirling vortex of color spiraled above its head, a maelstrom of fire and soul. To unknowing eyes it might have resembled a great weapon, some ultimate magic, but Dany knew: this was life being born.
She felt others then. Not just the Black. The White. The Green.
She had never touched them so vividly before. But now, their spirits rushed toward her. They circled, wings outstretched, siblings drawn together.
Dany flew among them, Black beneath her, White and Green beside her. They danced in the river of light, joy overwhelming.
She was their mother. They were her children.
No god had granted her this fate. Not R'hllor, not the Lord of Light, not shadow demons. Her destiny was older. Her bloodline, Valyria's supreme magic, had birthed this miracle.
"Only death may pay for life," the witch had said. But that was the creed of shadow demons, not of dragons.
Dragons needed no god. Dragons were miracle enough.
---
Ashes and Rebirth
By midnight, the fire had burned low. The great roaring beast dwindled, leaving only embers glowing in the sand. The air still shimmered with heat, but the furious tongues of flame had fallen quiet.
When dawn's first pale light crept across the horizon, Ser Jorah Mormont, exhausted and half-mad with worry, stepped forward. He found Daenerys at the center of the ash.
She crouched amidst blackened bones, charred wood, glowing coals. Naked, covered in soot and ash, she looked carved from the very remnants of the pyre. Only her silver hair gleamed bright, untouched, flowing like molten moonlight.
(P.S.: In the books her hair burns away, but in the show it survives. I refuse bald Dany — sticking with the TV here!)
"Seven hells…" Jorah whispered, awe and terror mingling in his voice.
From Dany's hair came a hiss. Something small, black, and alive uncurled. A serpent's head — no, not a serpent. Red eyes glowed like coals. Tiny wings fluttered. Smoke trailed from its nostrils.
"Dragon," Jorah choked.
He stumbled back, then fell to one knee, his face overcome with reverence.
Dany stirred, lifting her head. Her violet eyes locked first on Mormont, then on the Dothraki beyond.
They all saw. And they all knelt. Warriors, slaves, handmaidens, even Odor's ten captured men. Every head bowed, every body prostrated to the earth. This was no fear of Drogo's might. This was worship, true and unshakable.
Daenerys rose slowly, soot falling like snow from her body. She stood naked, proud, the fire's child.
"Irri," she said, her voice calm, commanding, "bring me my clothes. Doreah, Jhiqui — prepare hot water for my bath."
The black dragon clung to her shoulder, its neck coiling like a serpent around her throat. Its two brothers squirmed against her chest, clutched in her arms.
Irri hurried forward with a silken robe, wrapping it carefully around her khaleesi's body. Her hands shook as she looked at the dragonlings. Her eyes widened, lips trembling.
"A horse that rides the world…" she whispered. "Khaleesi, you have given birth to the stallion who mounts the world. The prophecy is fulfilled!"
"You talk too much," Dany said lightly.
The black hatchling turned its head, hissed, and snapped at the handmaiden, its tiny roar echoing its mother's rebuke. The green and white joined, shrieking like infants demanding silence.
Irri squealed, covering her mouth in fright, nearly weeping.
Daenerys only smiled.
The world had changed. The dragons had returned.
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(End of Chapter 16)
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