Chapter Text
Daenerys leans heavily against the wall, staring out the open window at Dragonstone. The sky is blackening, and the sea is growing rough. A storm is brewing – not just outside, but inside her as well. Deep, and dark inside her very being. But she can weather it. She was not named Stormborn for nothing. She came into this world during the fiercest storm in living memory, and she will leave this world during a fierce storm as well. Or… she won’t. Not really. But that is not what matters now. A storm is brewing outside, and inside her, and those around her are right to fear it. Should fear it. But she does not. She is not just Stormborn. She is the storm. And she is ready. She shall weather whatever comes for her. Just as she always has.
She’s been betrayed before. Oftentimes, to others, she says, in a flippantly false tone, more times than she can count. But in truth, each time is scored on her heart. Her soul. Some of those scores mark deeper than others. They criss-cross so heavily atop one another that sometimes she wonders what her heart looks like inside her battered, and aching chest. Is it a mess of gashes, old and new, each telling their own tale of a time she was used, humiliated, defiled, betrayed?
Of course. Viserys betrayed her by selling her. At the time it was a painful betrayal. A familial betrayal, by her only family. One of the first she could really remember. But time lessened the pain as she came to see him for what he was. And what she meant to him. Or rather, did not mean to him. Jorah. Oh, Jorah. He was inappropriate. Too familiar. Wanted from her what she could never give. But he was loyal. Until he wasn’t. Until he was again. His betrayal had sliced deep into her heart. But she had forgiven him. Had forgiven him and was now left grieving him. Grieving that he died to protect her. To save her. But was that not what he was sworn to do? What he had always said he would do? It made no matter. She mourned her friend. Her first real friend, and her first real betrayal.
But this. What she was facing now. It was an uncomfortable mixture of both. It was a betrayal by family, and a betrayal of one who had sworn her their loyalty.
She’d told him. She’d told him what would happen if he told his sisters about who his true parents were.
Daenerys was no fool. She knew that the annulment was unlawful. She knew how unlikely it was that anyone outside the North would believe the word of a failed, would-be Maester, and the visions of a boy, who claimed not to be a boy, that were given to him by the powers of the Old Gods, which none but those of the North of Westeros followed. But still, she feared. And, now, she knew she was right to. For now her own advisors were betraying her too.
Her nose, long since attuned to the scent of poison, an unfortunate consequence of a childhood spent forever dodging the assassins claw, and now the sense further heightened by the babe trying desperately to grow strong within her belly, could smell the poison lacing the food that the spider had his little birds sending up to her.
He was trying to kill her. He was trying to kill her because now he knew – with thanks, in order, to Jon, to Sansa, to Tyrion – that there was a male with Targareyn blood. A male who did not even want the throne, so he said. A male who had no idea what it meant to be a Targareyn. To suffer because of it. To be exiled, and hunted because of it. To starve, and fear, and cry, and yes, and yes, to feel shame because of it. A male who took no pride in his true name. He endured none of the bad that came with being a Targareyn. And he took none of the pride in being one. Yet they saw him as the better choice.
Why? She did not know. Well, she did. Men are men after all. And men prefer to defer to men, if they must defer to someone.
She should have known. Or maybe in truth she did know. She did issue the spider with a warning should he ever betray her. He had not betrayed her before. Yes, he had tried to kill her before. Many times in fact. But he was not serving her then. He was now. Or, he was supposed to be. But instead of serving her he offered to her false faces and poisonously sweet words while to her enemies he spoke false words of heritage and laced her food with real poison.
She should care more. She knew she should. And she knew that one day she would. But for now, for today, and perhaps for every other day she lived, there was something more important. Her babe, her child. Varys could kill her a thousand times over, conspire to place a thousand Jon’s or Aegon’s or whoevers on the throne. But he would not take her child.
He was smart, she knew. Too smart. Though, and she smirked a little to herself here. Not as smart as he liked to think himself. Daenerys Stormborn had been escaping the assassins noose from the moment she first drew breath. She knew she could outsmart him here. And she had a plan.
It was simple. Almost too simple. She would simply allow him to believe that he had succeeded. That he had won. The spider that felled the dragon! It was laughable. But he was conceited enough to believe it. Men always were. Especially men who aggrandized their own importance in this world the way the spider does.
And believe it she would let him. She would make him. She would make sure of it. For she had a plan. And her life, while precious to her, was nothing compared to the lives of her people and to the burgeoning life of the babe inside her. And it was these lives that relied on her plan working. So work, it shall.
To fake a convincing death you need to bleed. A lot. A poisoning kind of bleed. A treason kind of bleed. She knew the poison the spider was attempting to fill her with. It was a messy one. One which caused the victim to bleed, and bleed from everywhere possible a person could bleed until they could bleed no more. And so bleed she shall.
As soon as she’d caught wind of the spider’s plans she’d begun to siphon her blood. A little each day, though perhaps more than was wise. For Missandei had found her after one of her private bleeding sessions. Weak, and a little disorientated. She had not wanted to involve her people in her plan until the last possible moment. She did not want them in danger. Not the people left to her. The people she loved. The people who loved her in return. The people who would never betray her.
But she had, to her shame, forgotten one fundamental truth. Just as she was willing to bleed for them, they were willing to bleed for her. Missandei had been distraught with worry until Daenerys had filled her in on her plan. Then, despite her protestations, Missandei, with that gentle strength which was stronger and more unbending than any Dany had ever had the privilege to know, Missandei had rallied her real allies to her plan.
The people of Westeos could accuse her of being foreign all they wanted. But it was remarkably convenient now. Neither the spider, nor Tyrion spoke Dothraki, or Valaryian – despite having been amongst her people for years. Shameful really – and so Missandei had no difficulty disseminating the plan. Mhysa, Khaleesi, needed blood. Not much. Just a little from those who were willing.
They were all willing.
Soon. Much sooner than she could have imagined, she had all the blood she would need.
But that would not be enough. She was angry. She felt betrayed. She felt betrayed by Jon. She thought he had loved her. For she certainly loved him. She had given everything she had to him to save his home, yes. But that, to her, was not what showed her love. That was her being a protector. That was the person she was regardless of personal entanglements. She’d offered her help, freely and openly as soon as she had seen the real enemy. Not that anyone knew that. Even Jon seemed to have forgotten that. No, she’d also given Jon Snow herself. Her whole self. Something that she had never done before. Something that shook every bone in her body with terror, but that she’d done regardless. Because she thought she was his, and she wanted him to be hers. But he wasn’t. Not in the end. In the end, he was a Stark. Through, and through.
If she had more of a mind to think about it she would laugh until her sides were sore, then cry until her eyes were dry that people believed him honourable, believed him a Stark because of how he was raised – that the so called ‘taint’ of being a Targaryen would not touch him due to his rearing – yet no one, not a single person in Westeros considered that the way she was raised - poor, alone, starving and friendless - would shape the woman she is now. She had never met the father whose shadow, in this land at least, she would always be forced to dodge lest she ever appear any less than perfect. She had been raised amongst the people, all the people, she’d hungered like them, been afraid like them, been sold, and defiled like them, and it had made her a Queen of the people. But no one saw that. Oh no. In her they only saw the Mad King’s daughter. The ‘taint’ of Targareyn blood. How much difference was there really between being the Mad King’s daughter, and the Mad King’s grandson? And what of Jon’s trueborn father? Her foolish brother, Rhaegar? To many outsiders surely a number of his actions could be considered mad - chasing after prophecies he did not fully understand. Abadoning his lawful wife to the increasingy cruel whims of her increasingly cruel sire. So Jon could also be considered the Mad Prince’s son. But no, he was raised a Stark. Which, apparently absolves all.
Still. She mourned for him too. For what he would miss. But he had pushed her away. From almost the moment she had set foot in that godforsaken, frozen wasteland he had been uneasy around her. Always wary of the judgmental eyes of his siblings, cousins, whatever. And then, once he had found out the truth of his birth he had pushed her away further. To this day she did not know why. He had never given her an answer to that question. Not that she had known how to ask it.
Though, in the end, he hadn’t had to. She had begged, begged him not to reveal the truth to his sisters at this time. Had tried, pulled emotionally taut though she was, to explain to him the grievous repercussions this truth would have for her. But he had made his choice.
He did not know about the babe. This she regretted. But she had not known at the time she had begged him either. It was not until the long march back to Dragonstone that her mind, drenched in denial and crowing about blood magic and curses, had finally allowed her to acknowledge what was there, truly there, growing within her. Life.
But it shouldn’t have had to be about the babe. This she would not bend on. She did not know why he pushed her away. Perhaps it was the relation that bothered him – in which case she could not see how he would want the babe at all, given that it was the product of a love he considered filthy, and she considered pure. Perhaps it was his family – she would not have her child born into an environment where one side of the family despised the other, and her side was significantly lower in numbers.
But beyond all that. She would not, would not, have him out of duty. She knew Jon Snow considered duty to be the highest of callings. Call her selfish, but she did not want herself, and her child to be the feather in the cap of a man doing his duty. ‘How noble of him’ the people would remark, ‘to stand beside the foreign whore’, ‘how honourable’, ‘how dutiful’.
Oh no. She did not need that. She was Daenerys Stormborn. She was no man’s duty. She was the storm. And the storm was coming. It was time to complete her plans. So, to solidify the tragedy, she could not stop there. She needed a diary. Minimum 300 entries on the Daenerys story. The exiled infant story. The homeless, beggar child story. The sold off child bride story. The Mother of Dragons story. The Breaker of Chains story. The girl who dreamed, who hoped of home, of Westeros story. The Jon and Dany story. She’d been writing it for some time now. Ever since she uncovered the spiders plans. Ever since she started to bleed herself, and her people started to bleed with her. It was a beautiful thing, her diary. Bound in dragonhide, with paper from Mereeen. Paper so soft it felt like melting butter on the tips of ones fingers. She’d chosen a place to put it. Somewhere only Jon would think to look. If he even cared to. If he came to Dragonstone at all. She wasn’t sure of anything any longer.
The storm is brewing stronger now. The wind and waves crashing against the shores and walls as though hurrying her along.
Everything was in place. The Dothraki had a drink to still the body to a point where it appeared dead. Dany had learned of it years ago. The Dosh Khaleen had devised it in order to aid wounded Khals. If their body was entirely at rest then they could heal. This would not be what she was using it for. No. She simply needed to appear dead long enough for the spider, and for Tyrion to see her. Then her people, her true people, would place her on a ship and take her back to Essos where she… where she… well, maybe she didn’t belong anywhere. Maybe she was never going to be blessed with a home. But where she could do the most good, be amongst people who loved her, who would never betray her. But importantly, where she could raise her child in peace without the fear of the spider and his machinations.
Essos had no weirwood trees. Essos did not have a place for the Old Gods. She knew even Jon Snow’s brother would not be able to find her as soon as she crossed the Narrow Sea.
The sky lit up as though it were the brightest of days, before going dark again, and thunder rumbled all around. Soon the spider would send one of his little birds to her with a plate full of death. Her people were ready, they were in place. The time had come.
She would tell Jon of the babe one day. Probably soon. He deserved to know at the very least. Even if he wanted the very least to do with it, or her. But only once she was safe. Safe in Essos. Away from Westeros and its treachery.
‘Yes’, Dany thought, ‘Westeros took my pride, and my dignity, and my hope, and my love, and my armies, and my dragon. They took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder.’
And now, it will look like murder.
Even if it is not.