Dusk had settled over the villa, golden light spilling across the marble floor. Irri tucked the three young dragons into their woven basket, whispering soft sounds until their chirps faded to restless murmurs.
She returned to the bed where the little stallion sat propped among cushions, violet eyes wide.
Irri lay beside him and began speaking in the rolling rhythm of her mother tongue.
"Vezhven jin azhinta," she murmured, brushing her fingers through his soft hair.
"Anha rayi. Anha khaleesi's blood."
The stallion who mounts the world.
Elena listened carefully.
"I still can't get the hang of it," she thought.
"But little by little… I understand more. It's been weeks now."
Rhaego babbled nonsense in reply, small hands reaching for Irri's braid. Irri laughed, delighted, as if the babe truly understood every word she spoke.
She pressed her forehead gently to his.
"You will ride across the grass sea," she whispered. "You will be strong. No man will stand before you."
Rhaego blinked.
"If only you knew how wrong that prophecy already went… In the original world Rhaego shouldn't be alive at this moment."
Deliberate footsteps echoed against the polished floors. Daenerys had returned. Her violet eyes scanned the room, and for a moment, she seemed uncertain, almost hesitant.
"Step outside, Irri," she commanded softly.
The handmaiden obeyed, bowing and slipping through the doorway, leaving Daenerys alone with the boy.
She approached the bed, hands hovering over Rhaego's soft form. Her fingers brushed through his silver hair, tender yet unsure. For a heartbeat, she simply stared, as though seeking guidance from the small, swaddled prince.
From the doorway, Ser Jorah appeared, frustration sharp in every line of his posture. Dany shifted slightly, stepping back just enough to give space between her and her child, yet keeping her violet eyes on him, unwavering.
"If you cross the sea with an army you bought, and a foreign husband who paid for it—" Jorah began, his voice low but firm, cutting through the stillness.
"The Seven Kingdoms are at war with one another!" Daenerys interrupted, voice tense, almost fierce. "Four false kings destroying the country!"
Jorah's gaze was steady, reasoning through every word. "To win Westeros, you need support from Westeros."
"The Usurper is dead," Dany replied, clipped, her voice carrying the weight of hard truths.
From Rhaego's vantage point, lying swaddled, he could feel the scene unfolding with uncanny familiarity.
Wait… what's happening? This is intense… this scene… it looks familiar…
Daenerys continued, eyes fixed on Ser Jorah, "The Starks fight the Lannisters. The Baratheons fight each other."
Jorah's hand gestured sharply, "According to your new friend," he said, "the one who earned your trust by cutting his hands?"
Elena's mind raced within Rhaego.
Wait… this scene… I think it's coming to me now…
Daenerys' gaze hardened, voice rising slightly with resolve. "The time to strike is now. We need to find ships and an army, or we'll spend the rest of our lives rotting at the edge of the world."
Ser Jorah Mormont persisted, his voice rough as old leather, worn by too many years of hard counsel given and harder truths swallowed.
"Rich men do not become rich by giving more than they get. They'll give you ships and soldiers and they'll own you forever."
He stepped closer, "Moving carefully is the hard way," he reasoned, "but it's the right way."
Daenerys regarded him from beneath pale lashes, her small hands curled at her sides. The silver-gold hair that framed her face seemed to drink the firelight, yet her expression was stone.
"And if I listened to that advice outside the gates of Qarth, we'd all be dead by now."
Jorah let out a sigh that seemed drawn from the bottom of his lungs. Then he lifted his gaze again, gray eyes meeting violet, steady despite the hurt that flickered there.
"I know the opportunity before you seems like the last you'll ever have… But you must understand—"
"Do not speak to me like I'm a child," Daenerys cut in.
She moved past him, her silken skirts brushing his arm with the barest whisper of contact.
Jorah exhaled again, a ragged sound. He stood motionless for a moment, the silence stretching taut between them. Then he turned, slow and deliberate, boots scuffing faintly on the mosaic floor.
"I only want—"
"What do you want?" Daenerys said, wheeling to face him once more. Her voice was quiet now, "Tell me."
The question hung between them like smoke from a dying fire, sharp and thin. Daenerys stood with her back straight, chin lifted, the silver hair that fell in loose waves catching the unsteady glow of the sconces. Her eyes, violet as bruised twilight, held no mercy now, only demand.
Ser Jorah felt the words rise in his throat like bile, "To see you on the Iron Throne," he said at last, the words rough, almost reluctant.
Daenerys tilted her head, a small motion, birdlike and wary.
"Why?" she asked.
Jorah drew a breath that seemed to scrape his ribs, mocking the barren places his heart had known. He looked at her, truly looked and saw not the girl who had once trembled beneath a khal's shadow, but the woman forged in fire and loss, fragile as dragon bone yet unyielding.
"You have a good claim," he said. "A title. A birthright. But you have something more." His voice dropped lower.
"You may cover it up and deny it, but you have a gentle heart. You would not only be respected and feared, you would be loved."
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the soft crackle of wax dripping onto the floor. Daenerys studied him, her expression unreadable, though something flickered in her eyes was surprise, perhaps, or the first stirrings of doubt.
Jorah lowered his gaze for a moment, as though it might swallow the rest of what he dared not say. When he spoke again, it was quieter still.
"Someone who can rule," he continued, "and should rule. Centuries come and go without a person like that coming into the world. There are times when I look at you and I still can't believe you're real."
Daenerys said nothing at first. Her gaze drifted toward the latticed window, the dying light painting the room in amber and shadow. Yet even as she tried to look away, her mind clung to Ser Jorah's words, the weight of them, the quiet certainty in his voice.
A gentle heart… loved… someone who can rule…
Her chest tightened, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the tug of vulnerability she hadn't allowed herself in years. The memory of fire and blood, of loss and exile, hovered at the edge of her thoughts but then she looked down.
Rhaego…
Those wide, innocent eyes staring up at her, curious and trusting, unspoiled by the cruelties of the world. His tiny hands reached out, batting at the air with clumsy joy, his soft gurgles echoing in the quiet room.
The sight of him, so small yet alive with a spark she recognized, made her pulse quicken. A swell of something… pride, tenderness, fear, and hope all at once rose in her chest.
She stepped forward, each movement deliberate, and perched at the edge of the bed. Her fingers brushed the fine white hair at his forehead, lightly, reverently. He cooed and squirmed, reaching for her hand, and she let herself smile a fragile, hesitant curve of her lips she smiled.
But her smile faded as her thoughts returned to what had to be decided. The warmth drained from her expression, replaced by resolve.
Without looking at him, she spoke.
"So… what would you have me do as my advisor?" she asked, the hesitation barely veiled beneath her steady tone. It was not surrender but it was an opening.
A moment of silence lingered in the air. Ser Jorah shifted his weight before answering.
"Make your own way. Find your own ship. You only need one. The allies we need are in Westeros not Qarth."
"And how do I get this ship?" she asked, still not turning to face him.
"I'll find it for you," he said. "A sound ship. With a good captain."
Another pause settled between them, not tense now, but fragile, like the first plank laid across uncertain waters.
Then Daenerys turned.
"I look forward to meeting him," she said at last, her violet eyes meeting him.
Ser Jorah nodded once in approval and bowed his head. "Khaleesi." Then he withdrew, his footsteps fading into the corridor.
Daenerys' gaze followed him until he disappeared from sight.
Only then did her breath catch.
The room felt different now.. quieter, heavier with consequence. Had she chosen wisely? Was this strength… or desperation dressed as courage?
She turned back to Rhaego.
He watched her with innocent eyes, unaware of ships or thrones or the weight of crowns. His small hand curled around her finger without question, without doubt.
Her heart tightened.
She had loved Khal Drogo with a fierce, consuming fire and part of her still did. The thought of another husband, another bargain sealed in silk and coin, felt like betrayal. Not only of Drogo… but of the child they had made together.
How could she stand beside another man and not feel that ghost between them? How could she claim it was for duty… when Rhaego would one day ask who his father was?
Yet the world would not bend for love alone.
She brushed her thumb across her son's brow, her expression softening with fierce devotion.
"I will not fail you," she whispered under her breath.
Not for power.
Not for pride.
For him…
Whatever path she chose, whatever man stood beside her, it would never replace the memory of the khal who had given her strength… nor the child who now gave her purpose.
And for Rhaego, for her beloved boy, she would endure anything.