Reignition of The Dragon

The knock came before she had fully composed herself.

Three sharp raps against the heavy wooden door. Not a servant's hesitant tap, but something firmer. Impatient.

Her breath steadied.

"Princess Daenerys," came a smooth, practiced voice. "Your brother requests your presence."

Illyrio Mopatis.

The realization settled into place, confirming what her memories had already told her—she was in Pentos, a guest of the magister, her fate teetering on the edge of a decision that was never truly hers.

Except it was now.

She rose from the simple bed, her movements slow and controlled. Her limbs still felt foreign, but there was no room for hesitation. Not when she was about to face the man who had shaped Daenerys' early life with cruelty and delusion.

Viserys.

She would not cower before him.

Instead, she would make him underestimate her.

Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her dress—simple, pale, chosen to make her look fragile. She let her hair fall loose, soft waves cascading over her shoulders.

Let him see what he expects to see.

Taking a steadying breath, she moved toward the door.

---

The Dragon's Shadow

Illyrio was waiting outside, his broad frame blocking most of the dimly lit corridor. He smelled of perfume and spiced oils, his robes embroidered with gold and deep purple silk, a man who wanted to appear richer than he was.

She had seen men like him before—men who wielded their influence like a blade hidden beneath layers of silk. Illyrio was no true ally. He was an opportunist. He would serve whoever benefited him most.

That meant he could be useful.

"Ah, my dear princess," Illyrio greeted, his voice as warm as a summer wind. "Your brother grows impatient."

He always does.

Daenerys inclined her head, lowering her gaze just enough to feign meekness. "I will not keep him waiting, Magister."

Illyrio smiled approvingly, as if she had passed some silent test, and turned, leading her down the corridor.

She walked with measured steps, her mind already analyzing everything around her—the layout of the hallways, the placement of guards, the exits.

If she was to carve her own path, she needed to understand the board before she moved her pieces.

---

Viserys Targaryen

The room they entered was lavish but suffocating. Rich silk curtains hung from the windows, the scent of incense thick in the air. A table was set with half-eaten food and goblets of wine, but it was the man standing near the balcony that drew her attention.

Viserys.

Her brother.

He turned sharply at their arrival, his violet eyes already burning with impatience.

"You took your time," he snapped, arms crossed over his chest.

He was taller than her, his Valyrian features sharp, almost handsome, but there was something hollow about him. Something desperate.

In another life, Daenerys had flinched beneath that gaze. She had lowered her head, desperate to avoid his anger.

But she was not that Daenerys.

Instead, she exhaled softly and lowered her lashes, just enough to seem obedient. "I apologize, brother."

It was a small thing, but it worked.

Viserys relaxed ever so slightly, pleased by her submission.

He was predictable.

Good.

"Do not make a habit of it," he muttered before turning to Illyrio. "Tell her."

Illyrio chuckled, pouring himself a goblet of wine before answering. "Your brother has secured you a great honor, my dear princess. Khal Drogo arrives soon. If he finds you pleasing, he will take you as his queen."

Daenerys stilled, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.

She already knew this was coming.

She had spent a lifetime watching Daenerys suffer, powerless to stop it. But she was Daenerys now.

And she had power.

"I understand," she murmured.

Viserys scoffed. "You should understand. Do you know what he will give me in return?"

She met his gaze. "An army."

His smirk widened. "An army," he echoed, stepping closer. "Forty thousand riders who will take me back to Westeros. Take us back to Westeros."

You will never sit on the Iron Throne, she thought, but she let none of it show on her face.

Instead, she gave him what he wanted—a silent nod, the image of a submissive sister willing to obey.

Let him believe she was still his pawn.

Let him believe he held the leash.

He would never see the knife until it was at his throat.

---

A Game Begins

After Viserys dismissed her, Daenerys allowed herself a moment of stillness.

She stood by the window of her chamber, looking out at the sprawling city below.

The game had begun.

Her marriage to Khal Drogo was inevitable, but submission was not.

She would not be a frightened girl traded like a coin. She would not let Drogo see her as a prize to be won.

She would turn her marriage into a weapon.

Drogo was a warlord, a man who respected strength above all else. If she cowered, he would never listen to her.

But if she commanded?

She could make him her greatest ally.

And when the time came, when the pieces were in place, she would return to Westeros not as a beggar, but as a conqueror.

The world would know the name Daenerys Targaryen.

And it would fear it.

---