[98] Fire And Blood

Chapter 98: Fire And Blood

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The dry grass of the Dothraki Sea whispered beneath Daenerys as she curled into herself, the midday sun bearing down with merciless heat. Her broken arm throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a constant reminder of her failure. Of her brother.

Drogon lay sprawled nearby, his massive form casting the only shadow for miles. Blood still oozed from the wounds he'd suffered in Daznak's Pit, spears embedded in his black scales like pins in a seamstress's cushion. She'd tried to remove them, but he'd snapped at her fingers, eyes blazing with pain and fury.

"Please," she whispered, crawling closer despite his warning growl. "Let me help you."

The dragon regarded her with amber eyes that held no recognition, no loyalty—just the wild, untamed spirit of a creature that answered to no master. Not even the Mother of Dragons.

How had her brother tamed one such beast?

Shame washed over her anew. She had abandoned her city, her people, her friends. Left Ser Barristan bleeding, Grey Worm barely recovered from his earlier wounds, Missandei with a fresh gash across her shoulder. They had fought for her, and she had fled.

And Viserys...

The memory of his face as she soared away twisted in her gut like a knife. He'd come for her after all, despite her defiance, despite her broken promises. His dragon—stronger, more magnificent than even Drogon—had moved with precision and power that Daenerys could only dream of commanding.

The vast emptiness of the Dothraki Sea mirrored Daenerys's sense of abandonment. Each breath felt like labor, weighed down by the heavy realization of her failures.

Yet, amidst the whispers of the dry grass and Drogon's occasional pained growl, a spark of resolve ignited within her. She recalled the faces of those who had stood by her—the loyalty in Grey Worm's eyes, the unyielding determination of Ser Barristan, the gentle support of Missandei.  They had fought for her, believed in her vision of a better world.

A sudden wave of clarity washed over her.

She… couldn't abandon them now, not when they needed her most. They were more than just subjects; they were her family, her people.

Since her dreams of getting the Iron Throne were ruined, the city of Meereen became more than a throne—it was a promise of freedom, a symbol of her dream to break the chains of oppression. She had to go back.

"...Why did you bring me here?" she asked Drogon, her voice cracking with thirst. She’d initially only wanted to fly into the pyramid, but Drogon brought her here. She leaned against his body, staring ahead as she spoke slowly. "Take me back. They need us."

“Grrgh,” Drogon flicked his tail, unconcerned with her pleas. She sighed, staring ahead.

He had gorged himself on wild goats earlier, leaving nothing but charred bones for her to find. Now, his only interest seemed to be sleep.

Daenerys sank back into the grass, her strength fading. Without water, without food, she wouldn't last long in this wasteland. Another failure to add to her growing list.

"You should have listened."

The voice slithered through the air like silk. Daenerys stiffened, then turned slowly.

Quaithe the Shadowbinder stood a few paces away, her lacquered mask gleaming in the sunlight. Her form shimmered as if seen through water. The shadowbinder's presence seemed both solid and ethereal, a contradiction of the natural world.

"You," Daenerys breathed, struggling to her feet. "Have you come to mock me as well?"

"I came to witness," Quaithe replied, her voice eerily calm. "To see the dragon queen fallen from her throne of bones."

Fury flared in Daenerys's chest. "I have not fallen. Meereen still stands, and I will return—"

"Meereen burns," Quaithe interrupted. "The Sons of the Harpy spread through its streets like poison. Your Unsullied fall one by one. Your friends bleed. Your reign crumbles to ash."

Each word struck like a physical blow. Daenerys swayed on her feet. "No," she whispered. "My brother—"

"Yes," Quaithe nodded slowly. "Your brother. The dragon king. He fights your war now, while you hide in the grass. He’s the sole reason that the things I just mentioned didn’t happen. He defied that fate."

"I- I'm not hiding!" Daenerys snapped, but the words rang hollow even to her own ears. "Drogon brought me here. I didn't choose to leave."

Quaithe tilted her head, the jewels on her mask catching the sunlight. "Didn't you? The moment you climbed onto his back, you chose flight over fight. You chose to abandon what you could not control."

Drogon shifted behind her as if sensing her distress. But he made no move to rise, to take her back to the city that needed her.

"What would you have me do?" Daenerys asked, anger giving way to desperation. "Tell me plainly for once! No more riddles, no more prophecies."

"I told you before. To go forward, you must go back." Quaithe stepped closer, her movements unnaturally smooth. "Back to the beginning. Back to blood."

"Viserys," Daenerys said, the name bitter on her tongue.

"The brother you denied. The king you scorned." Quaithe's voice held no judgment, only cold facts. "He has grown into his power while you cling to the ghost of yours."

Daenerys felt herself trembling, not from fear but from the weight of truth in those words. She thought of Viserys as he was now—commanding, powerful, his dragon obeying his every word while her own fled at the first opportunity.

The contrast was so stark it burned.

"He broke my arm," she said softly. "He threatened me. Called me useless."

"And was he wrong?" Quaithe asked, the question slicing deep. "You have lost two dragons. Your city bleeds. Your soldiers die. Your enemies multiply."

Daenerys had no answer.

"The time for pride has passed, Daenerys Stormborn," Quaithe continued, circling her slowly. "The dragon must not fight the dragon. Fire against fire leaves only ashes."

"You want me to surrender to him?" Daenerys asked incredulously. "To kneel before my brother like—like some conquered queen?"

"I want you to remember who you are." Quaithe stopped directly before her. "Blood of the dragon. Last of the Targaryens, save one. You were meant to rule together, a dynasty reborn through fire. He’s not here to conquer you… he’s just here to take his sister back."

Dany’s heart spasmed at her last words. Does he truly? Despite everything, she let out a laugh—a hollow, bitter sound. "You don't know my brother if you think he would share power."

"I know him better than you think," Quaithe said cryptically. "He has changed, yes. Grown stronger, yes. But he came for you when you needed him most. Would a true enemy do such a thing?"

The question lingered in the air between them.

Daenerys remembered the rage in Viserys's eyes as she fled—not directed at her, but at those who dared attack her. It didn't fit with the brother who had sold her, abused her, and threatened her unborn child.

"...Who are you?”

“That is not important, Mother of Dragons.”

Dany knew asking more was useless, so she sighed. “What would you have me do?" she asked again, quieter now.

"Submit," Quaithe said simply. "Not to break, but to bend. Like the reed in the storm that survives while the oak shatters. Find him. Join him. Together, you will be unstoppable."

Daenerys looked away, staring across the endless plains. "And if I refuse?" she was not convinced. She’d never be.

"Then you will die," Quaithe said, her voice soft with certainty. "Alone, forgotten. And he will rule all the same. Lonely, but regardless."

****

After that talk, the vision of Quaithe shimmered and vanished like morning mist, leaving Daenerys alone with the endless grasslands stretching in every direction. Then Drogon shifted restlessly beside her, his massive wings extending briefly before he launched himself skyward with surprising speed.

"Drogon!" Daenerys cried, her voice breaking. "Please don't leave me!"

But the black dragon soared higher, a dark shadow against the pale blue sky. It then banked sharply and disappeared beyond the horizon. Abandoned. Again.

Her stomach clenched with hunger, her throat parched with thirst. Daenerys stumbled forward, her legs trembling beneath her. She couldn't simply sit there staring at the charred bones of sheep Drogon had devoured earlier.

The tall grass lashed against her legs as she pressed on. With each step, her burden grew heavier, as her broken arm sent jolts of pain through her body with every motion. She scanned the terrain anxiously, looking for any hint of water, food, or shelter.

Nothing.

The grassland offered nothing.

Other than endless waves of gold and brown under the merciless sun.

It made her feel helpless. It made her want to cry. Submit, Quaithe had said. The word tasted like ashes in her mouth as her lips quivered.

"...No. I am Daenerys Stormborn," she whispered to herself, her cracked lips stinging. "I take what is mine with fire and blood. I do not submit."

But hadn't she already fled? Abandoned her people? Left Meereen to burn while she cowered in the grass like a frightened rabbit? And Viserys—her cruel, weak brother who had sold her like chattel—now commanded a dragon more powerful than her own. The irony was bitter enough to choke on.

As she spent the next hour roaming the grass in search of a single fruit-bearing tree, something finally changed.

– Dhum… Dhum… Dhum!

A distant sound pulled her from her thoughts. Drums? No—hoofbeats. Hundreds of them, perhaps ten thousand, pounding against the earth in a rhythm as old as the grasslands themselves.

Daenerys froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. One by one, riders appeared on the horizon, their silhouettes unmistakable. Long braids and curved arakhs gleaming in the sunlight.

The Dothraki.

Dammit. They saw her as an enemy, someone who was the reason why Khal Drogo died. This couldn’t be good.

They spread across the grassland like a living wave, horses snorting and stomping as they encircled her position. Thousands of them, far less than Drogo commanded, but more than enough to tear her apart. Their whoops and cries filled the air as they drew closer, tightening the noose around her.

Daenerys swallowed. She stood straight, lifting her chin despite the fear coursing through her veins.

She had been Khaleesi once. She would not cower before them, even in defeat.

But as the circle of mounted warriors closed around her, the magnitude of her situation crashed down upon her shoulders. Alone. Dragonless. Injured. She was nothing but prey to them now. What could she do against ten thousand Dothraki?!

Daenerys sighed, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion and resignation.

After everything she had survived—the Red Waste, Qarth, the Masters of Astapor, and Yunkai, the Sons of the Harpy—to fall to Dothraki in the middle of nowhere seemed a cruel jest of the gods. Wasn’t that funny? Somehow, she couldn’t laugh.

— Roarrghhhh!

Then—a roar split the sky.

Not Drogon. She knew her child's voice, and this was different—deeper, more commanding. She knew this one too.

A golden sheen fell over the world as if the sun itself had descended.

Daenerys looked up to find Viserion soaring overhead, the dragon's golden scales catching the sunlight in a blinding display of power. She flew low as her massive form flew over the Dothraki, whose horses slowed and turned away in panic. Loyal steeds who would never fear battle now fled for their lives, though not all could escape.

“Wha-”

“Don’t run!”

“Coward stallion!”

They yelled among themselves, and Dany looked around in wonder. It was a sight to see these brave men tremble. They looked at the dragon in fear, and they looked at her in fear, for the dragon was here to protect her.

Viserion landed behind her with earth-shaking force, her wings creating a gust that nearly knocked Daenerys off her feet. The golden dragon roared at the Dothraki forces, the sound vibrating through Daenerys's bones. The air boomed, grass exploded.

“Barbaric mudbloods.” And there, atop the magnificent creature, sat Viserys.

Her brother, transformed beyond recognition from the sniveling, cruel man she had once known, glared at the Dothraki. Then, he looked down at her. He smiled at her, his expression shifting to triumph and something softer she couldn't quite name.

"How many times do I have to save you in a single day, sister? Not very dragon-like," he insulted her and then reached out a hand. "Come."

Daenerys stared at the offered hand, paralyzed by indecision.

To take it would mean surrender—an admission that she had failed where he had succeeded. That she couldn’t survive without him. Every fiber of her being rebelled against the idea.

Yet what choice did she truly have? Surrounded by Dothraki, without Drogon, with a broken arm... could she really afford pride now?

If she refused him, what then? Would he leave her to the khalasar? Fly away as Drogon had? Or would he take her anyway, drag her back to Meereen in chains to show everyone how the mighty Mother of Dragons had fallen?

And if she accepted... what would he demand in return?

Submission? The Iron Throne? Her very dragons?

But my dragons are already lost to me, she thought bitterly. Rhaegal stolen, Drogon fled, and Viserion... Viserion never belonged to me at all.

Perhaps Quaithe was right. Perhaps this was the only way forward—through surrender. But, she wasn’t sure if she had it in her to—

“Ugh, annoying to the last second.” Before she could finish the thought, Viserys grumbled impatiently. He leaped from Viserion's back with inhuman grace, landing beside her. In one swift motion, he yanked her off her feet.

"Look," he said, jumping back onto Viserion's back as if the massive height were nothing, cradling her against his chest, "if you're so stubborn, I'll just have to be a bit more forceful and claim you myself. I don't care if you keep fight—"

The words died in his throat as Daenerys wrapped her arms around his neck, gently resting her face against his shoulder.

"No..." she said softly, her voice barely audible over Viserion's breathing. "I won't fight anymore. I…” she barely found the strength to speak. “I am sorry for being like this... brother."

Viserys froze for a moment, clearly caught off guard by her surrender. A moment passed between them like that, surrounded by shouting Dothraki and a roaring Viserion. Then his expression softened into a genuine smile. He hugged her back, one arm secure around her waist.

"Viserion. Fly," he commanded.

The golden dragon scoffed before spreading her wings and launching into the sky, leaving the thousands of Dothraki men on horseback far below. The sight made something click into place in Daenerys's mind.

Her brother wasn't the same man who had sold her to Khal Drogo. The same man who had been bullied by every Dothraki, even the weakest among them. Now, he could simply ignore thousands of them together and walk away because they posed no threat to him. Because if they tried to harm him, she was sure the Grass Sea wouldn’t belong to the Dothraki anymore.

Dany felt pathetic at that realization. Knowing how lesser she was compared to him. As they soared higher, the acceptance of everything she had lost—and everything he had gained—washed over her in a wave of grief and acceptance.

Yet, at the same time, she felt safe. Because lesser or not, he was her brother, and he came all the way here to protect her.

Daenerys found herself sobbing against her brother's chest, tears she had held back for too long finally breaking free.

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Author Note: Did you like the chapter? Let me know!