Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

In A Song of Ice and Fire, many prophecies come true, with over 90% of them manifesting in reality. Among them is the Dothraki crone's prophecy about Daenerys: her child would be "The Stallion Who Mounts the World."

This "stallion" was not meant to predict that she would give birth to an actual horse.

The Dothraki revere horses deeply, tied to their culture and survival. They drink mare's milk as infants, eat horse meat as adults, and consume horse milk wine. In life, they ride fierce steeds; in death, they are buried with their finest horse sacrificed at their side.

"Stallion" is a metaphor among the Dothraki for a strong, healthy boy.

Unfortunately, the prophecy was misinterpreted. Daenerys did not bear a son—or rather, her child was not a boy but three dragons!

Dragons, the ultimate representation of power and dominion, could they not be considered the true "stallions that mount the world"?

Having watched Game of Thrones in her previous life, this reincarnated Daenerys understood the crone's prophecy better than Jorah or anyone else.

But she couldn't speak of this aloud. Not to anyone. Revealing the truth could attract attention to the seemingly unremarkable dragon eggs—and might even cost her life.

—Even a fool knew that dragons were far more dangerous than any mighty khal.

Damn it, she thought bitterly. The prophecy was so accurate, yet it failed to account for black magic. The witches of Vaes Dothrak must be terribly lopsided in their studies.

Still, Drogo's impending death might free her. But the timing was terrible.

Daenerys forced herself to banish such dark thoughts. She was here now, armed with knowledge of Mirri Maz Duur's wicked schemes. She would not let her child be lost, much less sacrificed to demons.

Losing the baby might have saved the khaleesi's life, but now the baby wasn't just hers. This child, she was determined to protect.

Resolute, Daenerys rejected Jorah's plan to "elope" with her.

"Running off with you would lead to a dead end, Ser Jorah. We wouldn't even make it off the grasslands."

When Irri and Jhiqui brought in hot water and red wine, Daenerys began cleaning Drogo's wounds with the wine. But it was futile. Dark, purplish-black pus continued to seep endlessly as she worked.

After half an hour of this, she admitted defeat. Boiling silken cloth in milk of the poppy, she wrapped it tightly around Drogo's chest.

It wouldn't heal him, but it would numb the pain and reduce his suffering.

She ordered Irri and Jhiqui to clean Drogo's body with cotton cloth, then directed Doreah to bring out a cedarwood chest.

The chest was adorned with bronze trimmings and measured about 30cm wide, 30cm high, and a meter long.

"Doreah, lay my bedding here," Daenerys instructed, pointing to the hearth at the center of the yurt.

Drogo's yurt was massive, spanning at least 200 square meters. At its center was an open circular vent in the roof, below which a hearth framed by iron plates radiated warmth into the cool night air.

"Isn't it too close? Won't it be too hot?" Doreah hesitated.

"I don't mind the heat."

That much was true.

Ever since arriving in this world, Daenerys had realized that the Targaryen family's "true dragon body" was real. At least for her, the sun's scorching rays didn't bother her at all.

While Doreah arranged the bedding, Daenerys opened the cedar chest. It was lined with soft velvet, cradling three large "stone" eggs.

Each egg was roughly the size of an ostrich egg but far more exquisite. Unlike the monotone shades of bird eggs, these were vibrant and mesmerizing.

Born into an ordinary family in her past life, Daenerys had never seen top-tier jewels in person. Yet she was certain: compared to these dragon eggs, the Heart of the Ocean from Titanic or the sapphire atop the Queen of England's crown were nothing more than dull pebbles.

These three dragon eggs were wedding gifts from Illyrio Mopatis, the governor of Pentos. Sourced from the Shadow Lands, they were fossilized over millennia, crystallized into works of art.

The eggs appeared to be crafted from fine ceramics, enamel, or glass. Their surfaces gleamed with vibrant, jewel-like patterns, as if inlaid with gemstones and diamonds.

Covered in tiny scales, the eggs shimmered with a metallic glow when touched.

One egg was deep green with bronze flecks, promising a green dragon. Another was creamy white with golden streaks, holding a white dragon. The last was black, like a midnight sea, with swirling red waves—a black dragon.

As Daenerys caressed the eggs, warmth radiated from them. The heat rising from the eggs felt so comforting that she almost moaned in pleasure.

"Doreah, come here and touch them. Aren't they hot?" she asked.

Curious, Doreah ran her hands over the eggs, then shook her head. "Cold as always, Your Grace."

Daenerys dismissed her with a wave. "Prepare supper—start with the big goose."

The goose, weighing four or five pounds, was roasted and stewed with turnips and apples. Surprisingly, it was delicious. Daenerys devoured nearly half of it: a leg and half the breast.

She tore into black bread dipped in the stew, unintentionally consuming about three pounds of food.

This body is incredible, she mused. So resilient, almost indestructible. Could it be the blood of the dragon at work?

Belching softly, Daenerys instructed, "Doreah, give the rest of the goose to Ser Jorah. Irri, Jhiqui, help me bathe."

After washing, she oversaw Irri feeding Drogo a thick pouch of mare's milk. Once that was done, she prepared to sleep.

The tent was quiet and spacious, with only three people inside. In the distance, Drogo twitched and moaned sporadically, his nerves overstimulated by black magic.

Daenerys lay near the hearth, with Irri beside her on the outside edge of the bedding.

Each night, one of her handmaidens took turns sharing her bed to tend to her needs.

Naked, Daenerys clutched the three dragon eggs to her skin, as if drawing life and vitality from them.

This wasn't a mere illusion. The dragon eggs truly seemed to aid in healing.

Daenerys was a princess of a fallen kingdom. Just months before her birth, her father and brother's throne was usurped by Robert Baratheon. If not for a loyal old knight who fled to Braavos with her and her brother Viserys, she would likely have shared the tragic fate of her nephew—smashed against a wall, reduced to a gruesome mixture of red and white flesh.

For the first five years of her life, under the care of the old knight, Daenerys experienced a semblance of comfort, living as a commoner. But after the knight passed away, her young brother took charge, leading her through a nomadic life across the nine free cities.

From the age of five to thirteen, they fled across thousands of miles—not an exaggeration but a harsh reality—evading the assassins sent by the usurper. The narrow streets and dark alleys of various city-states in Essos bore witness to the silver-haired Targaryen siblings.

Initially, governors, lords, and wealthy merchants who ruled the free cities welcomed the Targaryen heirs warmly. But as Robert Baratheon's grip on the Iron Throne solidified, one door after another closed in their faces, leaving the siblings to struggle in worsening poverty.

Over the years, they pawned every piece of jewelry and even their mother's crown. The little money they earned was quickly spent, leaving them destitute and the subject of mockery. In the taverns and alleys of Pentos, people mockingly dubbed Viserys "the Beggar King," while Daenerys, timid and fearful, dared not inquire what people called her.

Malnourished from a young age, Daenerys grew up frail and underdeveloped, lacking curves and vitality. Constantly living under the threat of Viserys's volatile temper, she adopted a hunched, submissive posture, resembling an old woman despite her youth.

Were it not for the legendary beauty carried by her Targaryen lineage, even Drogo might have overlooked her—Viserys had initially worried he might not be able to "sell" his sister.

Every Targaryen was known for their striking looks, a genetic trait passed down through generations.

Daenerys, who didn't experience her first menstruation until thirteen, had never ridden a horse before being thrust into a nomadic lifestyle. The grueling days of travel nearly broke her spirit, and she seriously contemplated ending her life to escape her misery.

In the brutal world of A Song of Ice and Fire, Daenerys's misfortunes stood unparalleled. Compared to her, the hardships faced by the Stark family seemed trivial.

Losing their father, mother, and brothers, and being driven from their homeland (the North), was tragic, but Daenerys had already endured worse. She had grown up with an empty stomach, survived extreme hardships, and lost everything—including a husband who genuinely loved her, her protector, and her unborn child—all within days.

Her suffering didn't end there. While the Starks still had chances for redemption, Daenerys seemed destined to fall endlessly into an abyss.

"Who dares to claim they've suffered more than I have?"

But back to the story.

On the verge of physical and emotional collapse, Daenerys almost succumbed to despair. What changed her both physically and mentally was the dragon eggs.

Through dreams, she communed with the dragons within the eggs, their souls touching hers. Overnight, her wounds healed. Her body and spirit seemed to undergo a transformation, emerging renewed, as if reborn.

This is a fantastical world of dragons and magic, and Daenerys's bloodline was anything but ordinary.

"Little ones, give your mother strength. Dragon babies, lend your mother your power," Daenerys murmured softly, cradling a black dragon egg like an incantation.

Even in this fantastical moment, she muttered the words in her native tongue.

Apart from emanating waves of heat, the egg showed no other signs of change.

Placing the dragon egg beside her feather pillow, Daenerys lay on her side, gazing at the flickering flames with a mix of determination and desperation.

"If I have taken on this body, I must do everything to protect its child. For survival, I must try."

Clenching her teeth, Daenerys extended her hand toward the dancing flames.

In the modern world, she had often watched extreme challenge videos on TikTok—burning popsicles, grilling air, and such.

But today, she wanted to shout: "Has anyone tried roasting themselves alive?"

Daenerys was about to roast human flesh—her own.

(P.S.: Regarding the origin of Daenerys's dragon eggs, since George R.R. Martin released the prequel Fire and Blood last year, many believe the eggs were stolen by Alyssa from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and sold to the Sea Lord.

However, to answer this question, one must consider Martin's writing timeline.

In 1991, A Game of Thrones, the first book of A Song of Ice and Fire, was completed. By 2018, due to repeated delays of The Winds of Winter (spanning nearly seven to eight years), Martin produced Fire and Blood—a work some find lackluster in narrative depth. The key points had already been covered in A Song of Ice and Fire, and its storytelling and character development paled in comparison.

When Martin initially wrote A Song of Ice and Fire in 1991, he hadn't envisioned his books becoming a massive hit. Early text explicitly stated the dragon eggs were fossils from millennia ago.

They were not eggs from a century prior, as the detailed backstory of Princess Rhaenyra wasn't conceived at the time.

Therefore, regardless of Martin's current intentions, this writer firmly believes the dragon eggs originated as fossils from the Shadow Lands—rare but not utterly unique. If only three eggs remained in the world, they would have long been hoarded by nobles and never fallen into Daenerys's hands.

Clearly, Illyrio didn't know she could hatch them, or he wouldn't have sold her to Drogo.)

(End of Chapter)

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