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The Stormborn and the Stormbringer

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There was nothing in the eggs but dust, of bones long since disintegrated.

It was all for nothing.

Daenerys could barely see through the smoke and flickering flames of the pyre but she had cradled the eggs close. She'd been so sure it would work- something instinctive and fierce urged her to add the eggs to Drogo's pyre, to tie the woman there to watch her burn, to crawl among the flames to grasp the eggs. She had thought that it was her blood calling for her to wake the dragon eggs, to bring her family's dynasty back. After all, she'd lost everything to truly make her the Last Dragon so she thought this was her ancestral lines way of waking through her.

Instead, even when her clothes burned away and ash of wood and flesh coated her limbs, the eggs she held cracked to reveal nothing but dust which scattered to the burning around her. Her wounded cry went unnoticed by her khalasar- those who remained anyway -as the night sky high above deepened, uncaring of her misery.

The flames burned and the smoke singed her eyes but didn't harm her. Fire cannot kill a dragon.

What a joke now, she had nothing. She had no son, had no husband, and now even the eggs cracked open to nothing but ash. Just like the rest of her family and now her future.

Curling up on her side, resting on the charred bones of her Drogo, Daenerys fell asleep. There was nothing else to do, after all.

As the pyre burned to the ground as her khalasar slept around her, she was unaware of the way the ground beneath her sunk down somewhat. Cracks inched through the dry earth, the ashes of bone seeping through the cracks to slither below until something stirred, something which had slept for eons after falling from the stars. Tiny and helpless inside its shell but waiting nonetheless.

Above the sky thickened, clouds curling their way through the previously clear night to become heavy and grumbling with distant thunder. A few of the khalasar stirred, some murmuring of omens as lightning shot through the black clouds yet no rain fell upon them.

When Daenerys felt something scaly slide against her bare foot she barely moved, more asleep than awake as the pyre shifted to smouldering ashes as the flames died. Then a forked tongue flickered against her ankle and she thought it was a snake. In her despairing state she would have welcomed the bite.

But then a low chirp sounded, the noise as weak as a kitten but caused her body to stiffen. With painful movements Daenerys shifted, hands coated with ash and hair a streaked mess as she pushed herself up from where she'd been lying on the bones of her husband.

A small scaly face stared up at her.

It was joined by two others.

Daenerys stared at the small creature curled around her legs, ignoring the smoke watering her eyes. It was the size of a cat but there was no mistaking the scales, the long neck, the small wings tucked to its side, the long serpentine tail. It reared up on its hind legs, stretching its translucent wings out for balance and then chirped again. Its voice was so weak.

She felt as if she was experiencing a vision; after all, she'd clutched all three of the eggs, felt their shells break to reveal nothing but dust inside. But as she reached for the small beast its weight was real in her arms as she gathered it against her breast. It chirped again, the left most head stretching up to flick out a forked tongue against her jaw. Daenerys cradled the tiny golden dragon, running filthy fingertips over its necks and caressing its back. Its limbs were gangly and she could feel its scales which were hardly any harder than her fingernails. She'd lost her son, she'd lost her husband. But now she'd been given another chance.

She was now the mother to the only dragon in existence.

The dragon has three heads.

Daenerys had been taught about dragons, about her family history and the great beasts they rode. About their thick hides and near impenetrable scales. About their horned heads and fanged maws that can spit fire at a moments notice. About their leathery wings which sounded like the roar of thunder with each beat.

She had never been taught about them having multiple heads. The three headed crimson dragon of her House's flag was to represent Aegon and his sister-wives, of the three dragons they used to bend the Seven Kingdoms to their knees. It was figurative.

But this one she cradled to her breast had three heads at the end of its sinuous serpentine necks. The crown of each head was dotted with small, barely-there horns with more along the length of the spine. There were also two tails, the barbed tips curling around her forearm like a babe clinging to its mother's finger. Its scales shone like gold, glittering through the ash coating its body.

The dragon has three heads.