Inside the narrow cabin, ten scented candles burned atop a sandalwood table, filling the air with fragrance and casting flickering light acr
Inside the narrow cabin, ten scented candles burned atop a sandalwood table, filling the air with fragrance and casting flickering light across the darkness. The gemstones adorning the queen's fingers, belt, and crown shimmered in the glow. Beauty was a woman's nature—doubly so for a queen.
If she ever wanted the stars, Drogo might not be able to pluck them, but he would carve them into his soul for her.
To him, the alluring Quaithe was a fleeting fantasy—Daenerys was his true love.
The Mother of Dragons sat with anticipation, listening to the approaching sound of boots. Her knees pressed against the ebony chair, hands clenched at her stomach, trembling with nervous excitement.
To Daenerys, her brother Rhaegar—killed by Robert Baratheon's warhammer at the Trident—was a hero. Though far from perfect, she chose to cherish his rare moments of glory and forget the darker rumors. She longed for family, for connection. Compared to her brutal father and domineering brother, Rhaegar's myth was easier to love.
Aggo, Rakharo, and Jhogo stood behind her with their arakhs, half in light and half in shadow. Their purpose was clear: to protect, serve, and obey.
Snowball, the white lion, crouched unusually still with rolled-back eyes. The bloodriders had seen this trance before, but neither healer Anger Krazni nor Maester Marposi could explain it.
A pungent perfume heralded the entrance of Jon Connington, dressed in black armor, followed closely by a blue-eyed youth. The exiled Hand of the King carried himself with courtesy, subtly deferring to the young man behind him.
Connington's beard was clean-shaven, and powdered makeup gave his wrinkled face an eerie femininity. The Dothraki warriors looked on in open contempt.
If not for the faint stubble on his chin, Daenerys might have mistaken him for a eunuch.
The boy's face still carried the youth of adolescence—sharp, pale, and slightly sinister. A blood-red-lined black cloak concealed all but his face, and the fabric bunched at his sides as if he were hiding something beneath.
He walked with his chin high, eyes fixed on Daenerys with arrogance and fascination.
She stared back at this strange, familiar boy, whispering to herself, "He looks... he truly looks like Viserys."
Connington's gaze briefly paused on Snowball, who stared back with disdainful, white-eyed stillness. He smiled politely at Daenerys and stepped to the table, bowing deeply.
"Princess, forgive my delay. You've suffered greatly over the years."
His words stirred something in Daenerys—an emotion she had only dreamed of: the feeling of being treated like royalty, like a true Targaryen princess.
With Drogo beside her, she had felt strong and safe. But those words brought back the bitterness of exile. Tears welled up, but she held them back.
Moved by Connington's reverence, Daenerys felt acknowledged. She even apologized for her father's madness.
"Lord Connington, I am but a young woman, unversed in ruling. I've heard of my father's deeds... and I apologize on his behalf."
Connington bowed his head. "Your Grace's kindness shames me."
This was her ship, her domain. Extending her pale hand, she gestured, "Please, be seated."
Connington sat with poise; the boy dropped into his chair carelessly. Daenerys wasted no time.
"My lord, what urgent matter regarding my brother Rhaegar have you brought?"
Connington raised his hands toward the youth. "Your Grace, let me first present the purpose of this meeting."
Though married, Daenerys sensed the boy's inappropriate interest. Yet his resemblance to Viserys stirred a strange emotion.
"Go on," she said.
"With pride, I present Aegon Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar. The sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms."
Daenerys sprang from her seat. "What?! My brother's son?! But he was smashed against a wall by Gregor Clegane—Robert himself saw the body! How can this be?!"
The boy stood, bowed, and placed a hand over his heart.
"Good evening, Aunt. I am indeed Rhaegar's son, born of Elia Martell. The baby Robert saw was a silver-haired infant Varys found in Tyrosh—a decoy. He died in my place."
His cold arrogance unsettled Daenerys, but the hope that he might be her nephew overrode her revulsion.
Sensing doubt, Connington quickly added, "We spent years hiding him. When we learned you had birthed dragons, we revealed his true lineage. If you still doubt, witness the proof of his blood."
The youth pulled back his hood to reveal silver-gold hair—the mark of House Targaryen. Then he removed his cloak, unveiling a shining suit of black-ice armor—Rhaegar's favorite.
Daenerys trembled, walked forward, and seized his arm.
"Does he resemble my brother?"
Connington's eyes grew distant. "Yes. Very much."
Tears spilled from her eyes—not of sorrow, but joy. The last of her kin, alive.
Connington nodded at Aegon, who stepped forward, eyes burning.
"Aunt, you are beautiful. I want a dragon. And I want a true heir of Targaryen blood."
Daenerys reeled. Her joy shattered. She stepped back in horror, returning to her bloodriders.
Snowball let out a furious roar: "Awoooo!"
Though they didn't understand Valyrian, her bloodriders drew their blades, eyes fixed on Aegon, awaiting her command.
The air grew heavy. Aegon was unfazed.
"Aunt, we are the last of the dragon blood. Together, we can restore our house. You have dragons, Unsullied, riders. I command the Golden Company. The Iron Throne is ours."
Targaryens had married kin for centuries. Aegon the Conqueror wed his sisters. Before Drogo, Daenerys expected to wed Viserys.
But not this boy—not now, not ever.
"I am Khal Drogo's wife," she said coldly. "The dragons answer to me and my husband. The Unsullied and Dothraki follow him. If you wish to join us, you're welcome. If not—leave."
Connington pleaded, "Your Grace, Drogo is a barbarian. Only Prince Aegon is your equal. Drogo has made many enemies—his end is near. Join us. When we land in Westeros with your dragons and raise the red dragon banner, Dorne, the Reach, and others will follow. Aegon will sit the throne, and you will rule beside him."
Aegon added, "Together, we'll conquer not just Westeros—but the world."
He smirked.
"Say yes, beautiful Daenerys. Dragons need three riders. I don't care about your horse-lord stench. Let's make a child and rule the world."
Daenerys spat in his face.
"Take your filthy dreams elsewhere. I will conquer Westeros—but not without my sun and stars. Drogo is the greatest man I've ever known."
Aegon opened his mouth, but Connington stopped him.
"The Qartheen gave us this ship. We owe them honor. Though our motto is 'Our word is as good as gold,' I lead the Golden Company now. The choice is yours. I await your answer—by sunrise."
He turned and left, dragging Aegon behind.
Aggo growled, "Khaleesi, shall I take his head?"
"No," Daenerys replied, tears in her voice. "Let's go."
On his golden throne, Drogo opened his eyes, voice like thunder.
"They dared to offend Daenerys and threaten our bond? They're already dead."
He comforted Daenerys, who recounted the meeting—but omitted the worst.
To her surprise, Drogo didn't rage. Instead, he had Missandei proclaim that Aegon should return at dawn—for a final answer.
"Drogo, they want to kill you!" Daenerys cried. "Don't yield for me!"
Drogo smiled. "If the boy is truly a dragon, let him prove it."
"What test?" she asked.
"You'll see."
That night, Drogo gave her joy—letting her be the conqueror for once.
Meanwhile, Connington removed his armor. His glove came off to reveal a blackened fingertip—greyscale. It had spread to the second joint. When he pricked it with a knife, he felt nothing.
He had little time left. But perhaps enough to see the Gryphon's Roost again—and place Rhaegar's son on the Iron Throne.
At dawn, Khal Drogo stood tall on deck with Daenerys at his side as Aegon and Connington boarded the Dragon's Glory with a troop of mercenaries.
Drogo approached Aegon with a smile, arms wide. He pulled the boy into a bone-crushing embrace.
Connington smiled, thinking it a welcome.
Then Drogo leaned back, smiled darkly, and looked skyward.
"Dracarys."
"No!" Connington and Daenerys shouted.
FWOOOSH.
A torrent of red and black fire engulfed them both.
From within the flames came Drogo's voice:
"A true dragon does not burn."
And at last, Daenerys understood what he meant by "test."
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