Black. Endless. Weightless. There was no sky. No air. Only warmth, then suddenly a soul stirred in the dark.
"Where… where am I?" The voice was female. Her name was Elena, confused, dry, echoing without echo.
"Why is it so hot…? Why does everything feel so, tight? Am I sleeping on the sofa again? Ugh.. My head hurts.. I can't be late to my class.."
She could not move. No limbs responded. No voice answered. Only the faint sound of crying a woman's sobs, distant but near.
"Who's crying?" Suddenly—
Light.
A flash behind closed lids, like staring into the sun from beneath water.
She blinked or perhaps… the child blinked.
His eyes opened slowly a unnatural, haunting. Violet irises veined with blue hue, pupils thin and slit, like a cat's or a dragon's.
She.. Elena inside the babe, felt a rush of cold panic.
"What the hell is this…?"
Stone. Ash. A woman with silver hair weeping above her. Three creatures at her feet, not possible. Medieval looking tents. Dothraki faces. Armor. Leather. Blood. Fire. Dragons.
Dragons.
One of them a black-scaled, red-eyed chirped near her face. It nuzzled close, curious.
"IS THAT A DRAGON?! HELL NO."
She tried to recoil, to scream, to run, but her body refused.
All she could muster was a sobbing wail, a baby's thin cry. Her lungs strained, her voice cracked, but the noise was not hers, not truly.
Daenery clutched her child tighter.
"Shhh… shhh, my son, my brave little Rhaego…"
But Rhaego… if he even remained, was gone. And in his place, a woman from another world cried beneath a newborn's skin, helpless and terrified, reborn into a tale already in motion.
"Who…? Rhaego…?" Elena inside the child's body murmured, confusion tightening her chest.
She had no clear understanding of how she had come to exist here, in this infant frame, yet the name sounded familiar.
And then it hit her.
That name…
Isn't that from the story… the show?
Her wide, newborn eyes blinked against the haze of smoke and ash. The realization struck like a bolt. The woman holding her, weeping, rocking her against soot-streaked skin, was none other than Daenerys Targaryen the Mother of Dragons, the breaker of chains, the liberator of slaves, the woman who had carved an empire across Essos with fire and blood.
And in that story… she had died. Alone. Mad. At the end of the show. The woman inside of Rhaego, frowned from recalling that information because that was the ending of this story.
"I'm pretty sure the writers of that show at the end of the season didn't know what to do with her character and just killed her off…" she thought, as she clenched her small baby hands.
Then she felt Dany's gaze, Daenerys's violet eyes, steady and searching, staring directly at her. And a shadow shifted beside them, Ser Jorah.
The knight's usual composure was gone. His eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and fear, as if the impossible before him defied every rule of nature he had ever known.
"This… child…" Jorah whispered, voice tight, trembling, "how… how can you be…?"
Daenerys's arms tightened slightly, cradling the tiny figure closer. Her gaze never wavered from the kneeling Dothraki and the scorched pyre around them.
"Perhaps it is prophecy… or destiny… or something the world has not yet understood," she said softly, almost to herself.
"Call it what you will. But it is real. And he is here."
Jorah swallowed hard, trembling as he looked down at the infant.
"I… I've seen much in my life, Khaleesi… dragons… fire… death… but never this."
Daenerys pressed a finger lightly to Rhaego's chest, feeling the steady, miraculous heartbeat.
"The world has a way of making legends real," she said, voice calm but edged with awe.
"Some things you hear of only in stories… and yet here he is."
Elena, inside Rhaego blinked, absorbing the weight of the words.
If I remember correctly, there is no such thing as half dragon half human in this world.. Right?
Her heart, if such a small body could feel it, raced.
She was alive. And in her arms, Daenerys held what the world had once thought impossible.
The Red Waste…
As the days passed, Daenerys and the remnants of her khalasar walked across the scorching, endless plains of the Red Waste. The heat radiated off the cracked earth, and the wind carried nothing but dust and the scent of scorched grass. They searched for any town or settlement that might offer shelter, a place to rest before the harsh desert claimed them.
Daenerys carried Baby Rhaego in her arms, his tiny body swaddled against her chest, while the little drogon clung to her shoulders, stretching his wings, chirping softly, and nuzzling the boy.
Elena, the consciousness inside Rhaego, felt the world in startling clarity. She raised her small arms, trying to feel the warmth of the sun and the coarse brush of air against her skin.
Dang… this is real. I'm really here. How is this even possible?
Dany glanced down at her son, a soft smile tugging at her soot-streaked cheeks.
"What is it, Rhaego? Does the sky interest you?" she asked gently, her violet eyes bright with curiosity and love.
The baby's tiny hands stretched, and Elena felt a flutter of delight through the swaddled body.
Dany laughed softly. "Someday, when you are all grown, you will conquer the sky. You'll fly freely and feel the clouds brushing past your wings, my love."
Elena's mind raced with a mixture of awe and determination.
Dany is so pure… so kind. I have to protect her… at all costs.
But reality pressed against her thoughts. I'm still a baby. A tiny infant. How am I supposed to do anything like this? She let out a small, frustrated sigh.
If only I weren't so small… I wonder if being half dragon means I could grow at the same pace as Drogon and the others… Maybe then I can make a difference.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Doreah, one of Daenerys' handmaidens, approached cautiously and curiously.
"What do you think, Khaleesi?" she asked softly, her eyes flicking toward the infant.
"About what?" Daenerys replied, adjusting her hold on Rhaego.
"About him… Baby Rhaego. Have any Targaryens in the past ever birthed… half-dragons, Khaleesi?"
Daenerys paused, considering the question carefully. She recalled the histories, the lineage, the countless records of Targaryen births… yet nothing spoke of a child like this. Not her brother Viserys, not the annals of Old Valyria, nothing.
"I… I suppose not," she murmured finally, her gaze softening on the child.
"It seems my son may be the first of his kind. I don't know if it is a blessing… or something else entirely. But as his mother, I will raise him right."
She handed Doreah the black-scaled hatchling to put it back in the basket with the others and returned her full attention to Baby Rhaego, gently cradling him against her chest. Elena's consciousness buzzed within the tiny body, processing the weight of the words.
If this world is the same as the one I watched… maybe I can prevent Dany from going mad. Maybe I can use this body, this half-dragon form… to my advantage…
Rhaego's lips curled into a small, mischievous grin. Dany glanced down at her baby and chuckled softly. Even in the harsh wasteland, there was a moment of warmth and light.
Suddenly, a cry rang out hooves pounding weakly against the baked earth. Daenerys' gaze snapped toward the sound. Her white horse, the one gifted by Khal Drogo, had collapsed from heat and exhaustion.
Ser Jorah rushed forward, urgency in every step, and Daenerys followed, her heart tightening as she bent toward the animal.
The horse's breathing was ragged, sweat pouring down its flanks. Dany's hands hovered above it, trembling slightly.
"She was Drogo's first gift," she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow.
"I remember," Ser Jorah said softly, his hand brushing briefly against her arm in silent support.
Dany's shoulders slumped, exhaustion heavy in her bones, yet her violet eyes remained sharp.
"I promised… I promised to protect them. Promised their enemies would die screaming. How do I make starvation scream?"
Ser Jorah shook his head gently, trying to ease her grief.
"A trick I never learned, I'm afraid."
Dany's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, the endless Red Waste stretching in every direction
"Does it ever end?" she asked, her voice weary, almost pleading.
"It is further east than I have ever gone," Jorah replied, steady but somber, "but yes, Khaleesi… everything ends. Even the Red Waste."
"And are you sure there is no other way?" she said, a trace of desperation flickering in her exhausted eyes.
Ser Jorah's voice was low, measured, but laced with worry.
"If we go south, to the lands of the Lazarene, the men there will kill us… and take your dragons. If we go west, into the Dothraki Sea, the first khalasar we meet will do the same… and especially if they see Rhaego alive… they will—"
Dany cut him off sharply, her gaze fixed forward, unblinking.
"No one will take my child… or my dragons," she said, fierce and unyielding.
Jorah's eyes softened, "They're too weak to fight.. as are your people.. you must be their strength."
Dany turned her gaze to him, violet eyes gleaming with trust and resolve. "As you are mine."
A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken meaning, a shared understanding forged through battles, loss, and devotion.
Rhaego, swaddled in her arms against her chest, felt every vibration of her voice, every tremor in Jorah's. Elena, occupying the child's mind, couldn't help but marvel.
Wow… that was… really intimate? Watching this unfold first-hand is like watching a 3D cinema. Damn.
Dany abruptly broke eye contact with Jorah, her focus snapping to the distant horizon.
"Zacoy coy!" she called.
Her voice rang across the Red Waste. Slowly, she straightened, lifting Rhaego higher against her chest. Jorah rose to follow her, steady
Three young bloodriders stepped forward, Rakharo among them, faces grim but loyal.
Elena's mind raced, connecting dots across worlds and stories.
Wait… I know this scene. This is the moment she sends the three of them out… yet only one returns.
Rhaego, still a baby in body but fully conscious in mind, focused on Rakharo.
Damn… this guy was my favorite. He was the most loyal Dothraki who stayed with Daenerys' khalasar.
Daenerys spoke with the three bloodriders in the harsh, rolling cadence of the Dothraki tongue. Their voices were low but intense, hands gesturing toward the horizon, toward directions only they understood.
Elena's mind raced.
Even in this body, I have no idea what they're saying… Can I even learn that language like this?
His thoughts sharpened with dread.
I know what happens. Rakharo… he dies. If this world follows the same path, he won't come back.
But what if it doesn't have to? What if I can change it?