Chapter Text
Restlessly, she patted the warm scales of her dragon. In return, he gently blew his breath into her face and purred under his touch. It was incomprehensible to her and yet she was already a little closer to her goal. Dragonstone, their home, lay before their eyes. They had reached the island just a few days ago and yet she could hardly believe it. A soft smile lay on her full, rosy lips, slowly, enjoying the stillness of the golden sunset, she let her violet eyes wander towards the sea. The unruly ocean glowed in shades of golden red, like an indestructible sea of flames.
Daenerys sighed softly as she slid thoughtfully to the ground. The following day would be an incredibly long one; Lady Olenna Tyrell and the Sand Snakes had already arrived on Dragonstone. But alongside them, the so-called King of the North also demanded her attention. There was something about this tall descendant of House Stark, but the Dragon Queen didn't know what. He had spoken of white walkers, the walking dead. Of great danger lurking behind the wall. She couldn't explain it and yet Daenerys secretly suspected that there was an ounce of truth to it all. Nevertheless, she could not risk helping the man from the north, the risk of losing her own war was far too great.
She hummed softly to herself, smiling slightly as she felt Drogon's soft purr. And yet, even though all three of her children were around her, she felt lonely. Viserion and Rhaegal, just like Drogon, often gave her a deep sense of comfort, of family. But that was exactly what gnawed at her. She was the last Targaryen still alive, of the blood of old Valyria. Perhaps she would also be the last of her glorious house. More and more, she longed for family, for back. Even when she looked at her hand, Tyrion Lannister, she knew that he loved his family against all odds. This fact did not please her at all, as it was Cersei Lannister who sat on the iron throne and claimed her birthright.
A gentle breeze stirred her long silver hair and the salty smell of the sea washed over her nose. Surrounded by these sensory impressions, Daenerys felt her eyelids slowly grow heavy. Surrounded by her dragons, safe and protected for this tiny peaceful moment, the Dragon Queen slowly drifted into a deep sleep.
When she opened her eyes again, she saw a city. Flames blazed up, buildings lay in ruins. There was screaming everywhere, whether children, women or men. They all ran away in panic.
An icy cold shiver ran down her spine, penetrated her bones and she found it difficult to breathe. As if someone was squeezing her throat. A choked sound escaped her brittle lips, hot tears welling up in her eyes. Daenerys knew from the bottom of her heart that she was looking at King's Landing at that very moment, and a soft cry of horror escaped her when she saw Jon Snow at the head of some men.
Her Unsullied and the Dothraki passed through the destroyed gates and took the city. The banner of her house, the red three-headed dragon on a black background, had been hoisted and was wafting in the smoky air. The smell of burnt flesh was almost unbearable for the dragon queen, the image before her unbearable. And yet she could not avert her gaze. She felt frozen. Hot and cold shivers ran through her body and she noticed the terrible trembling of her hands.
"Gaomagon ao jaelagon bisa naejot sagon aōha future?" (* Do you want this to be your future?*)
Speechless, still filled with horror, Daenerys shook her head. The voice that had spoken to her sounded strange, almost unearthly, godlike.
"Pār rȳbagon naejot issa Daenerys, jelmāzmo, drēje dārilaros naejot se āegenka dēmalion. Tala hen uēpa ānogar hen valyrio se dārilaros qilōni istan promised. Nykeā targārien mērī isse bisa vys iksos nykeā terrible mirre. Ziry jāhor maghagon ao ruin se morghon, ziry does daor sytilībagon isse se south. Ao issi nykeā zaldrīzes, ao jorrāelagon nykeā zaldrīzes rȳ aōha paktot. Nor iksos ziry īlva jaelagon bona lentor targārien should perish raqagon bisa. īlon jāhor jikagon ao, nykeā dārilaros hen aōha ānogar, pazavor se bāne. Ziry istan āzma syt ao."
(* Then listen to me Daenerys, Stormborn, Rightful heir to the iron throne. Daughter of the old blood of Valyria and princess who was promised. A Targaryen alone in this world is a terrible thing. But don’t be scared There lives another of your great house. Aegon, your brother's son. And yet he is not your destiny. He will bring you ruin and death, he does not belong in the south. You are a dragon, you need a dragon at your side. Nor is it our wish that House Targaryen should perish like this. We will send you a prince of your blood, loyal and hot-blooded. He was born for you.)
With a gasp, the dragon queen jerked up. Cold sweat covered her glowing body. Thoughts raced incessantly through her head, making her tremble. There was no doubt that this had not been a simple dream, but she sensed that it was both a warning and a promise. She couldn't get the voice that had spoken to her out of her head. She was firmly convinced that this was a dream sent by the gods.
Silently, with mixed feelings, she rose, said goodbye to the three dragons and sought shelter in the night fortress.
***
Prince Daemon looked around grimly. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword as it often did, dark sister. It was a horror for him to watch how the Hightower whor* with her father's c*nt entangled his brother more and more in her ropes. By now, the prince felt nothing but disgust for the man Viserys had become. The king was ill, Daemon knew his brother would not have long to live and yet he stayed, just to help his niece when she ascended the throne. Rhaenyra was probably the only thing that brought him joy in his life at the time and yet he couldn't have her to himself. No, because of the c*nt Otto Hightower, his beloved niece was married to Laenor Velaryon. Allegedly had five children with the offspring of the sea serpent.
Three of the boys clearly came from a different father, the dark hair was too obvious, and yet everyone who believed in Rhaenyra stood up for the legitimacy of the three.
"Naejot zaldrīzesdōron. Sōvegon, Caraxes." (* To Dragonstone. Fly, Caraxes.*)
An unpleasant grunt escaped Demon's lips as he and his faithful Bloodwyrm headed for a foggy wall. He had no choice but to fly through it. The angry screeching from Caraxes signaled to him that something was wrong. Perhaps it was an ambush?
The Rogue Prince surveyed his surroundings as best he could, but the thick fog made this increasingly difficult.
He sucked in his breath sharply as an image appeared before his eyes out of nowhere. He caught sight of a woman. She was beautiful, even more beautiful than his dear niece Rhaenyra. Long silver hair marked her as one of his blood, bright violet eyes were framed by thick black lashes. She looked young, but strong-willed and determined. Daemon could see that the heart of a warrior lay dormant in her, pride in the posture of her petite figure. The young woman did not seem spoiled, no, she was combative. A fire as hot as his own blazed in her veins. She was a true dragon.
"Bona iksos daenerys jelmāzmo. Se mōrī dārilaros hen lentor targārien isse zȳhon jēda. Ziry iksos se dārilaros qilōni istan promised se aōha destiny Daemon targārien. Issi ao naejot henujagon aōha own jēda, naejot glaesagon rūsīr zȳhon, dohaeragon zȳhon se dohaeragon naejot maghagon aōha lentor arlī naejot its uēpa jaqiarzir?" (*That is Daenerys Stormborn. The last princess of house Targaryen in her time. She is the princess who was promised and your destiny Daemon Targaryen. Are you willing to leave your own time, to live with her, help her and help to bring your house back to its old glory?*)
Daemon hissed softly. He sensed the proximity of the ancient magic and knew instinctively that he was dealing with the gods of ancient Valyria.
Without much hesitation, the Rogue Prince gave his consent. He was filled with anger, rage and mistrust at what had happened to House Targaryen and yet he could not leave the delicate girl alone. A Targaryen alone in the world was a terrible thing. His niece Rhaenyra, to whom a large part of his heart belonged, was the only thing that was dear to him here and yet it was not enough.
A fiery hot feeling raced through his body and a whisper echoed through his head. "Young and strong."
There was no doubt that something had happened to him. Although he had not yet reached old age, he could now feel the strength of his youth returning to his body and could literally feel the first barely visible furrows on his forehead smoothing out.
Not much later, the fog lifted, only a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach bore witness to the event that had just occurred. Dragonstone lay before him and the prince briefly questioned whether he had not fallen prey to madness.
Rhaenyra would certainly find his story interesting and so he would share it with her as soon as he had landed.
