The call of a mother

Danaerys I

Cold.

The blade was cold.

Of all the things I thought death would feel like, I had never imagined coldness would be the thing that lingered. Not pain. Not fear. Not even anger. Just an endless, creeping cold that spread from the knife lodged within my heart, stealing warmth from my limbs with every passing moment.

Jon's lips had been on mine only seconds before.

A kiss.

A farewell disguised as affection.

I wondered if he had known, in that final moment, that I trusted him completely. If he had felt even a flicker of guilt as the blade slid between my ribs. Perhaps he had. Perhaps he had not. It no longer mattered. Betrayal was a familiar companion. It had followed me across continents and kingdoms, worn a hundred different faces, spoken a hundred different promises. Why should the face of the last man I loved be any different?

My knees struck the stone and suddenly the Iron Throne stood before me once more. So close.

For years it had been the horizon I chased. Through deserts and cities, through war and blood and fire, through every sacrifice and every loss, it had remained waiting for me. The seat my family had forged. The birthright stolen before I had ever drawn breath.

Now it seemed absurd.

A twisted chair made from swords.

A mountain of sharpened steel that men and women had slaughtered one another to possess for centuries.

I had crossed the world for it.

And I would never sit upon it.

The thought should have hurt.

Instead, I felt only exhaustion.

Missandei's face drifted into my mind as darkness gathered at the edges of my vision. I saw her standing atop the walls of King's Landing, chains around her wrists and defiance in her eyes. I heard her final word as clearly as I had that day.

"Dracarys."

The dying command of a friend.

A plea.

A blessing.

A condemnation.

Perhaps all three.

I had answered her call. The city had burned beneath dragonfire and grief. History would decide whether I had been justified or monstrous, whether I had been a liberator or a tyrant. The dead did not concern themselves with such things.

A low sigh escaped me.

I was tired.

Not tired from battle. Not tired from ruling. Tired in a way that settled deep within the soul. Tired of burying those I loved. Tired of reaching for happiness only to watch it crumble into ash between my fingers.

My father had died before I knew him. My mother had died bringing me into this world. Viserys had been cruel, but he had been all I had once. Drogo. My son. Jorah. Missandei. Rhaegal. Viserion.

The names marched through my mind like ghosts.

Every person I had ever called family was gone.

Soon, I would join them.

The thought brought an unexpected sense of peace.

Then the throne room shook.

A roar split the air so violently that the stone beneath me trembled.