Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web.

I apologize, I thought it was just a common cold, but it's gotten worse these past couple of days, and I can't write much. Please bear with me. I'll make sure to catch up in the next few days. Thank you.

She had a high fever and was plagued by nightmares, dreaming of winged shadows.

“You don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon, do you?”

She walked through a long hall, with high stone arches above. She couldn't turn her head, couldn't look back. Far ahead of her was a door, which appeared quite small due to the distance, but she could still see that it was painted red. She quickened her pace, her bare feet leaving bloodstains on the stone floor.

“You don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon, do you?”

He saw the sunlight shining on the thriving Dothraki sea, the air filled with the scent of earth and death. The wind rustled the grass, and the green waves rippled like an ocean. The stars in the sky smiled down on them, the red sun and the myriad stars. Suddenly, the stars disappeared, and huge wings swept across the sky, setting the world ablaze.

“…Don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon, do you?”

Ser Jorah's face was gaunt and sorrowful. “Rhaegar was the last of the true dragons,” he told her, reaching out a translucent hand to warm himself over a brazier, in which several stone eggs lay, burning red and smoking like coal. One moment he had flesh and blood, and the next he began to fade, his muscles losing color, more insubstantial than the wind. “The last true dragon.” His voice was like a wisp of smoke, and then he vanished without a trace. She felt the pressing darkness behind her, and the red door grew farther and farther away.

“…Don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon, do you?”

Viserys stood before her, screaming shrilly: “You little harlot, a true dragon does not grovel! You are not to order the son of a dragon around! I am the true dragon, and I will have my crown!” Molten gold flowed like wax down his face, burning deep, sunken scars. “I am the true dragon! I will have my crown!”

“…Don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon…”

The red door was far, far ahead, but she could feel the cold breath behind her rushing towards her. If she were caught, she would fall into a fate more terrifying than death, forever wailing in the endless darkness. So she broke into a run.

“…Don’t want to wake the sleeping dragon…”

Her son was tall and strong, with Drogo's bronze skin and her silver-gold hair, and almond-shaped violet eyes. He smiled at her, reaching out to embrace her, but when he opened his mouth, he spewed forth a torrent of flames. She saw his heart burning fiercely in his chest, and in an instant, he vanished without a trace, like a moth drawn to a candle flame, consumed and turned to ashes.

“…Wake the sleeping dragon…”

Ghosts lined both sides of the long hall, wearing the faded garments of ancient kings, holding pale flame swords. Some had silver hair, some golden, some as bright as platinum, their eyes the colors of moonstone, amethyst, tourmaline, and jade. “Quick!” they cried. “Run, run!” She sprinted, each footfall melting the stone floor. “Run!” the ghosts shouted in unison, and she screamed, throwing herself forward. A sharp pain like a dagger sliced across her spine, and she felt her skin tearing open, smelled the stench of burning blood, and saw the shadow of huge wings. Then Daenerys Targaryen flew.

“…Wake the sleeping dragon…”

The red door loomed before her, closer and closer, the long hall dissolving into a blur around her, the cold air receding from behind, the stone floor disappearing. She flew over the Dothraki Sea, higher and higher, the green sea undulating below, all the creatures of the world fleeing for their lives in the shadow of her wings. She smelled the scent of home, saw the sights of home, beyond the door were green fields and a large stone house, a warmth embracing her heart, it was all there. She flung open the door.

“…Sleeping dragon…”

She saw her brother Rhaegar, clad in black armor, riding a steed of the same color, flames burning fiercely within the narrow eye slits of his helmet. “The last of the true dragons,” Ser Jorah whispered faintly, “the last, the last.” Daenerys lifted his polished black visor, and the face inside was her own.

After that, a long, long time of pain, a raging fire burning within her, and the whispering stars covered the entire world.

She woke with a start, the taste of ash in her mouth.

“No,” she moaned, “please, no!”

“Khaleesi?” Irri leaned over, like a frightened doe.

The tent was steeped in shadow, silent and enclosed. Countless fragments of ash drifted upwards from the brazier, Daenerys's gaze following them through the smoke hole above. Flying, she thought, I have wings, I can fly. But it was just a nightmare. “Save me,” she said softly, struggling to sit up. “Give me…” Her throat was hoarse, aching, she couldn't remember what she wanted. Why did it hurt so much? She felt as if her body had been torn to pieces and then reassembled. “I need…”

“Yes, Khaleesi.” With that, Jhiqui ran out, shouting loudly, leaving the tent empty. Daenerys wanted… something… someone… what was it? She knew it was important, the most important thing in the world. She rolled over, propping herself up on her elbows, fighting the blanket that tangled around her legs. Moving was so hard, so hard: the whole world was spinning. I must…

They came in to find her lying on the carpet, crawling towards the dragon eggs. Ser Jorah Mormont carried her back to the silken bed, and she resisted weakly. Over his shoulder, she saw her three handmaids, the slightly mustached Jhogo, and Mirri Maz Duur's flat, broad face. “I must,” she tried to tell them, “I must…”

“…Sleep, Princess,” Ser Jorah said.

“No,” Daenerys said, “please, please.”

“You must.” He tucked the silk covers around her, heedless of her fever. “Sleep well, Khaleesi, get well soon, and come back to us.” Then the maegi Mirri Maz Duur appeared, holding a cup to her lips. She tasted the sour milk within, and something else, thick and bitter. The warm liquid trickled down her chin, and she swallowed numbly. And then the camp faded, and she slept again, not dreaming, but floating in a vast, black ocean, serene and at peace.

After a time—a night, a day, or a year, she did not know—she woke again. The tent was pitch-black, and outside the wind whipped the silken hangings like fluttering wings. This time Daenerys did not struggle to rise. “Irri,” she called. “Jhiqui, Doreah.” They appeared at once. “My throat is so dry,” she said, “so dry, so dry.” And they brought her water. It was warm and tasteless, but Daenerys drank it greedily and bade Jhiqui bring more. Irri dampened a soft cloth and wiped her brow. “Am I sick?” Daenerys said. The Dothraki girl nodded. “How long?” She was afraid now, for Irri’s face was full of sorrow, despite the soothing cloth. “Long,” the handmaid whispered. When Jhiqui returned with more water, Mirri Maz Duur came with her, sleepy-eyed.

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