Chapter Text
Daenerys Targaryen (307 AC — Volantis)
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Her voice shattered through the ruined temple like dragonfire.
The candles trembled. Even the red priests lowered their eyes.But did not move.
The High Priestess stood before her in silence, calm as still water amidst a storm. Flames danced across the red woman’s face, but her dark eyes carried something far worse than fear.Pity.And Daenerys Targaryen hated pity.
“You brought me back once,” she said, her breathing uneven. “Melisandre brought him back. So why can’t you do it again?”
Her silver hair clung to her tear-streaked face. Ash floated through the air around them, glowing red in the firelight like dying embers.Kinvara finally spoke, her voice low and careful.
“My Queen... you were stabbed once. The blade pierced your heart cleanly. Death came quickly.”
“I know how I died.”
The words came sharp enough to cut steel.
Kinvara lowered her head slightly.
“Of course, Your Grace. But when Lord Snow was brought back at Castle Black, the wounds had not destroyed the mind itself. The Lord of Light returned him before too much was lost.”Daenerys stared at her.
“No.”
The priestess hesitated.“This time... he was butchered.”The words seemed to suck the air from the room.
“He suffered multiple stab wounds, but that is not the true cause.” Kinvara’s voice softened further. “The injury to the back of his head was severe. His skull was crushed.”
Silence.Heavy. Crushing. Unbearable.
Daenerys felt the world spinning around her.Just a day ago she had stood within the smoking ruins of Old Valyria beside Grey Worm, Kinvara, and the red priests after the dream called her there.A dream filled with fire. With screams. With blood.
The Lord of Light had shown her the truth.
The Three-Eyed Raven. The manipulations. The lies. The fate stolen from her.
She thought that was why she had come.
To learn the truth.
But now she realized the truth had only led her here.
To him.
Jon Snow lay motionless upon the cold stone floor.
Not sleeping.
Not resting.
Dead.
No...
Not dead.
Murdered.
His body was covered in blood. Deep stab wounds carved across his chest and stomach, staining the black stone beneath him. His curls were soaked crimson. And at the back of his head—
Gods.
Daenerys couldn’t look at it for long.
Whoever had done this had not merely wanted him dead.
They wanted him erased.
Somewhere outside the ruined temple, Drogon roared.
The sound shook the ancient walls violently, fury echoing across the smoking ruins of Valyria itself. Dust rained from the ceiling as the dragon screamed again — louder this time.
A beast mourning his king.
Daenerys slowly fell to her knees beside Jon’s body.
Her trembling fingers brushed against his cold hand.
Cold.
He was cold.
“No...” she whispered.
The word broke apart halfway through.
“Do something... please...”
She could barely breathe now. Every word clawed its way out of her chest.
Her throat tightened painfully.
“I can’t lose him...” she whispered, tears falling onto Jon’s bloodstained armor. “I don’t want to lose him too...”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Not Grey Worm. Not the priests. Not even Kinvara.
Only Drogon’s distant screams filled the silence.
And for the first time since Khal Drogo, since Viserys, since Missandei...
Daenerys Targaryen looked truly broken.
______________Two Days Before___________________
She was in the ruins of Valyria when the truth finally revealed itself. They were deep within the Ruins of Valyria. Daenerys, Grey Worm, Kinvara, and some unsullied soldiers had traveled there after she saw the dream. A dream that called to her. A dream that promised truth.
Not through whispers. Not through visions. But through fire.
With the help of and the flames of the Lord of Light, the secrets buried beneath ash and stone rose again. Ancient Valyrian magic answered blood — the blood of the dragon.
And in the fire, she saw him.
The Three-Eyed Raven.
He had known from the beginning.
Every death. Every betrayal. Every heartbreak.
All of it had unfolded exactly as he intended.
He knew what would happen once the truth of Jon’s parentage spread across Westeros. He knew it would tear them apart. Fear, doubt, duty — poison slipping between two people who had only ever wanted love.
They were the greatest threat to his design.
But dragons were difficult to control. The blood of Old Valyria carried magic too ancient to bend easily. So instead, he manipulated everyone around them. Tyrion. Sansa. Varys. Even Jon himself.
And in the end, it led to her death.
Her... and their child’s.
A sharp breath escaped her lips.
Her trembling hand moved slowly to her stomach.
The child she had prayed for in silence. The child she thought the gods had denied her forever.
How many nights had she cursed herself? How many times had she stared into darkness believing she was broken?
With Daario, nothing had happened. Month after month, hope slowly rotted away inside her until she stopped dreaming about it entirely.
But then came Jon.
She remembered his voice. His touch. The way he looked at her — not as a queen, not as a conqueror, but simply as a woman.
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to want impossible things.
A home. A family. A child born from love instead of politics or prophecy.
Tears streamed down her face, falling endlessly onto the black Valyrian stone beneath her feet. She didn’t care who saw.
Why should she?
All she had ever wanted was someone who truly loved her.
And she had found it.
Only for the world to rip it away.
The grief consumed her so completely that she barely noticed the pain at first.
A sudden crushing agony tightened around her chest.
Her breath caught violently.
The world tilted.
She stumbled backward, one hand clutching at the ancient wall as the other pressed against her chest. Grey Worm rushed forward, catching her before she hit the ground completely.
“Your Grace—”
But she collapsed to her knees anyway.
A broken gasp escaped her lips.
Then everything went black.
—
When consciousness returned, pain was the first thing she felt.
Cold. Sharp. Wrong.
Then came the roar.
Drogon.
Not a roar of anger. Not of warning.
This was something else.
Primal. Terrifying.
The ruined building shook violently around her as dust rained from the cracked ceiling. Outside, Drogon’s fury echoed across Valyria like the wrath of a god awakened.
Her heart began pounding.
She ran.
The moment she stepped outside, heat and wind slammed into her face. Drogon stood amidst the ruins, wings spread wide, smoke pouring from his jaws. His massive body trembled with rage.
“Drogon... calm down.”
But he didn’t listen.
His crimson eyes locked onto hers.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
She had never seen him like this before.
The dragon lowered himself suddenly, wings twitching impatiently.
Waiting.
“Drogon... what is it?”
He let out another deafening roar that shook the air itself, then lowered his wings again.
He wanted her to mount him.
Now.
Fear crawled up her spine.
Without another word, she climbed onto his back.
The instant her hands gripped the spikes along his neck, Drogon launched into the sky.
No command. No hesitation.
Just fury.
The winds screamed around them as Valyria vanished beneath clouds and smoke. Drogon flew harder and faster than ever before, barely resting, barely slowing. His muscles strained beneath her as if he were racing death itself.
And through their bond, she could feel it.
Terror.
Not hers.
His.
Something awaited them in Meereen.
Something terrible.
__Meereen__
The journey back was terrifyingly fast.
Drogon did not stop once.
Did not rest.
Did not slow.
Daenerys could feel the turmoil raging inside him through every beat of his wings.
Something terrible had happened.
Something so dreadful that even a dragon could not remain calm...
The clouds finally parted.
Through the fading storm, the Great Pyramid of Meereen emerged beneath them, towering over the city like a silent monument. From above, everything looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
The streets glowed beneath torchlight. The harbor remained calm. No smoke. No screams.
Nothing that explained Drogon’s terror.
Drogon descended sharply.
The impact of his landing shook the ground beneath the pyramid, sending dust and loose stone scattering across the courtyard. Before the dragon had fully settled, Daenerys slid from his back.
She didn’t wait.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t think.
She ran.
Unsullied guards were already gathering near the entrance, their faces tense beneath bronze helms. The moment they saw her, they straightened immediately.
Drogon must have warned them of her arrival long before she came into sight.
Daenerys stormed past them into the pyramid halls, silver hair whipping behind her like pale fire.
“What is happening?” she demanded in High Valyrian.
Her voice echoed through the corridors.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances.
Nobody answered.
Her pulse thundered harder.
“I asked you a question.”
One of the Unsullied finally stepped forward, though even he seemed reluctant to speak.
“Your Grace...” he began carefully. “There was... an incident earlier.”
Daenerys narrowed her eyes.
“What incident?”
“The scouts returned at dawn. They reported movement near the eastern roads. We believed—”
“And?”
The word cracked like a whip.
Before the soldier could answer, a sudden sound echoed from above.
Claws scraping stone.
Daenerys turned sharply.
Ghost.
The great white direwolf came rushing down the staircase.
But something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Ghost moved with none of his usual strength or pride. His white fur was stained with dirt and blood, his breathing uneven. And his eyes—
Gods.
He looked broken.
The direwolf went straight to Daenerys, stopping only long enough to press against her side. A low, painful whine escaped him.
Dany’s stomach tightened instantly.
“Ghost...” she whispered.
The wolf grabbed the edge of her sleeve gently with his teeth and pulled.
Upstairs.
Urgent.
Desperate.
“What is it?” she asked quickly, kneeling slightly toward him. “Has something happened to him?”
Ghost released another weak whine before turning immediately and sprinting back up the staircase.
Fear exploded inside her chest.
No.
No no no.
She followed him without another word, running through the upper halls while Unsullied footsteps echoed behind her. Her heart pounded so violently she could barely hear anything else now.
Ghost stopped before a chamber door.
Waiting.
As if he couldn’t make himself enter again.
Daenerys didn’t hesitate.
She pushed the door open.
And the world stopped.
Jon Snow lay motionless upon the floor.
Blood everywhere.
It stained the stone beneath him, soaked through his clothes, covered his hands, his chest, his face. Deep wounds tore across his body brutally, mercilessly.
And the back of his head—
Her breath caught instantly.
For one horrible second, she couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
The room felt distant suddenly, like she had fallen underwater.
“No...”
The whisper barely escaped her lips.
From the very first glance, she knew.
Jon Snow was dead.
“No…”
The word barely escaped her lips.
Daenerys took a slow step forward, then another, as though her body itself refused to accept what her eyes were seeing.
Jon lay motionless upon the stone floor.
Blood covered the floor beneath his body in dark crimson pools, still glistening beneath the torchlight. His curls were soaked red, strands falling across his pale face.
Too pale.
Gods... he was cold.
Deep stab wounds marked his chest and side brutally.
But it was the back of his head that made her breath stop.
Gods.
The injury was horrific.
Blood had dried through his curls, the stone beneath his head cracked and stained. Whoever had done this had struck him hard enough to crush bone.
For one terrible moment, she could not move.
The room felt distant. Unreal.
Ghost stood near the doorway, silent now, watching her with mournful eyes. Even the direwolf looked shattered.
Daenerys slowly fell to her knees beside Jon.
“No…” she whispered again, weaker this time.
Her trembling hands reached for him carefully, almost fearfully, as though touching him would make this real. The moment her fingers brushed against his skin, a sharp breath escaped her throat.
Cold.
He was cold.
Her eyes burned instantly with tears.
“Jon…”
No answer.
No movement. No breath.
A painful sound broke from her chest before she could stop it.
She shook him gently at first.
Then harder.
“Jon…”
Nothing.
The silence became unbearable.
Daenerys pressed a trembling hand against his chest as if she could somehow feel a heartbeat hidden beneath the blood and torn leather.
There was none.
Her vision blurred completely now.
All those moments returned at once — crossing the Wall together, fighting beside one another through the Long Night, arguing, trusting, protecting each other again and again despite everything standing between them.
They had hurt each other. Needed each other. Understood each other in ways nobody else ever could.
And now he was gone.
A broken breath escaped her lips as tears rolled freely down her face.
“I found the truth too late...” she whispered shakily.
Even after everything, she could never truly hate him. She tried. Gods, she tried. Every time she looked at the scars on her chest, she remembered the blade. Remembered the coldness in his eyes the night he killed her. Remembered collapsing into his arms while the throne room burned around them. There were nights she wanted to curse his name. Nights she wished she had never met him. But love did not disappear simply because it became painful. And that was the cruelest part of all. Even now, she still loved Jon Snow. It was undeniable. And deep down, beneath all the anger and betrayal, she knew he loved her too. Otherwise, he would never have come to Meereen. Two years ago, when they met again for the first time after her resurrection, she had wanted to burn him alive where he stood. Drogon had felt her rage too — flames gathering in the dragon’s throat while every Unsullied in the courtyard waited for her command. Jon never moved. Never begged. Never defended himself. He simply stood there before her, exhausted and broken, ready to accept whatever punishment she chose to give him. Perhaps he believed he deserved it. Perhaps part of him wanted it. But had stopped her. “We need him,” the Red Priestess told her quietly afterward. “Without him, we fail again.” Daenerys hated hearing it. Hated that Kinvara was right. So she spared him. But forgiveness was another matter entirely. If Jon Snow wished to stay in Meereen, then he would suffer for it. And he did. Every single day. She made certain of that. Cold words. Distance. Punishments disguised as duty. She never allowed him peace. Daario, however, took a special interest in Jon’s suffering. She noticed it long ago — the bitterness in his smiles whenever Jon entered the room, the satisfaction whenever he challenged him, insulted him, pushed him harder than necessary during training or patrols. Daario still loved her. Or at least believed he did. But Daenerys could never return those feelings, no matter how much she wished things were simpler. Because some part of her still belonged to Jon Snow. The same man who betrayed her. The same man who killed her. Daario knew it too. And that truth poisoned everything between them. Yet despite all the hatred, all the guilt, all the wounds between them, Jon stayed. He remained in Meereen beside her, enduring every cold glance and cruel word without complaint. Protecting her. Making certain she was safe even when she wanted nothing to do with him. And now— Now he was lying motionless before her. Dead. Again. This time far more brutally than before. Daenerys stared at his blood-covered body, tears silently falling down her face as the weight of it crushed her slowly from within. She never forgave him. Perhaps some part of her never would. But she still loved him. And now she would never get the chance to tell him that. Her hand moved carefully through his bloodstained curls before stopping near the wound at the back of his head. Her expression tightened instantly.
This was not some clean assassination.
This was rage.
Cruelty.
Whoever attacked him wanted to make sure he never rose again.
Outside, Drogon roared so violently the pyramid itself trembled.
The sound echoed through the chamber like grief given voice.
Daenerys closed her eyes briefly, trying to breathe, but the pain inside her chest only worsened. It felt unbearable, as though something inside her was tearing apart slowly.
For the first time in years, she looked completely lost.
Not a queen. Not a conqueror.
Just someone staring at the body of the person who mattered most to her… knowing she had arrived too late.