Author's Note: I started out with high hopes for Season Eight, and while I knew that it might not live up to my expectations, I never expected it to go so badly wrong.

Daenerys Targaryen in particular deserves so much better.

I have been planning to write for "Game of Thrones" for a while now, but I didn't think that my first story for this fandom would need to be a Fix-It. I hope that you enjoy it, and that if, like me, you are unhappy with the turn the show has taken, it helps a little.

I

She hears Viserion's cry before she sees him fall, fire pouring from his neck first, then a river of blood, so much blood that she knows that there is no hope that he can survive his wound. Rhaegal flies behind, desperate to help, to carry his brother to safety, but he is too far away, and cannot reach Viserion before he crashes into the ice and sinks underwater, out of sight. Rhaegal and Drogon shriek in anguish over the loss of their brother. Her grief for the smallest, sweetest and gentlest of her children is silent, but no less painful.

She sees the hundreds, thousands of Northerners lining the road to Winterfell, their flint-hard eyes taking in the Unsullied, the Dothraki, and the Queen they follow as the procession passes, their faces as cold as the snow surrounding them. Men and women, nobles and common folk, the elderly and even little children who should be too young to judge, too young to hate, look upon them as savage invaders. She may be here at the request of the man they crowned their King, she may be here to save all of their lives from the Army of the Dead, but she can be in no doubt that she and her people are not welcome in the North.

"The Night King has your dragon. He's one of them now."

She wishes that she could have been told in private, that she might steal a few moments to grieve before their work begins. With the eyes of the Northerners upon her, with so many people desperate to scent weakness in her, she cannot afford to shed a tear. She thought that nothing could make the loss of Viserion harder to bear, but the idea of him forced to serve his murderer, forced to attack his brothers, sickens her. 'A dragon is not a slave'. Across the Narrow Sea, hundreds of thousands of former slaves call her the Breaker of Chains, yet her only hope to free her own son from bondage is to take his life.

She sees a hundred thousand flaming arakhs lighting the night sky as the Dothraki charge against the Army of the Dead, riding into battle against monsters as fearlessly as they rode against mortal men. When the sky grows dark again, too dark to see any movement, she knows that the khalasar that was greater even than the one that Drogo had led, the khalasar that followed her across the poisoned waters, the khalasar that set aside hundreds of years of tradition to follow a woman for the first time because they believed in her, is no more. She has led them to their deaths.

She feels Drogon's panic when he is swarmed by wights, feels herself thrown from his back as he desperately tries to free himself of their attack. She sees a dead man rise and run at her, his eyes filled with an eerie blue light, and an instant before he can take her life, Ser Jorah is by her side, one arm around her as he hurries her away from the field of battle.

She sees the battle won, but too late to save Ser Jorah, her faithful knight giving his life to save hers, and dying in her arms, too badly wounded and too weakened by his valiant defence of her to speak any final words.

She whispers to his unhearing ear before she lights his pyre, wishing that she could have loved him in the way that he loved her.

She sits in the Great Hall at Winterfell, ostensibly presiding over a feast in honour of their victory, unable to keep herself from noticing that though her forces outnumbered those of the North several times over before the battle, they are now the ones outnumbered, unable to keep herself from wondering if it was through folly or by design that the strategy advocated had placed those who followed her in the positions of greatest danger.

Was it their intention to weaken her forces as much as possible, shifting the balance of power in their favour because it was always their intention to turn on her as soon as she defeated their enemies for them, or was it that they regarded her people as expendable, savages less worthy of survival than the warriors of the North?

She sees Jon hailed by Northmen and freefolk alike, lauded for riding a dragon as though she was not the one to bring dragons back into the world, and the first person in a century and a half to dare to ride a dragon.

She knows in that instant that it won't matter to them that his claim to be the Targaryen heir is based on nothing more than an unverified record found by his best friend and the word of his brother. There is not a man present who will stop long enough to consider how convenient it is that the Starks have managed to discover that their brother is the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, entitled to grant them the rule of the North on a whim. All Jon need do is name himself Aegon Targaryen and they will believe him to be the true heir because they will want to believe it. If he refuses to advance his claim in opposition to hers, there will be many who would be willing to take her life if they think it the surest way to force his hand.

"I've never begged for anything, but I'm begging you. Don't do this. Please."

She feels Jon pull away from her, knows that he will tell his sisters, and knows that as soon as Sansa Stark is told, she will find a way to use the information to her advantage, whatever the cost others may have to pay.

She hears Rhaegal cry out in agony and sees the monstrous weapons pierce his body, over and over until he falls from sky to sea, sinking beneath waves stained red with his life's blood. She has never wanted anything as badly as she wants to set Euron Greyjoy's ships aflame, to see him and every man who follows him perish in dragonfire in payment for her son's precious life, but she has Drogon to think of, and cannot allow her sole remaining child's life to be carelessly thrown away, not to avenge his brother or for any other reason.

She sees Missandei standing before Cersei Lannister, her wrists weighed down by the chains Daenerys sought to break.

She hears Missandei's last word, confirmation from the person whose judgement she trusted more than that of any other that King's Landing was not worth saving.

She sees Missandei's head struck from her body by a huge monster of a man, and left to fall into the dirt, while the smug face of Cersei Lannister looks on in amusement.

She feels the first glimmer of hope she has felt in what seems a very long time when she and Grey Worm, the only advisor on whose counsel she can depend, the only advisor who will never allow his personal ambitions or emotions to colour his advice, devise their strategy. That hope grows stronger when she flies over the outer walls of King's Landing with Drogon, too high for the bolts of the scorpions to reach him, but not so high that his flames cannot destroy the weapons meant to take his life. Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya took the Seven Kingdoms with three dragons. Surely she can hope that one dragon will be enough to allow her to capture one city.

Then there is fire.

Red and green flames engulf this cursed city.

There are screams.

Then those screams are silenced.

The Red Keep is a near-ruin when she reaches it, the few walls still standing looking as if they have melted in the hellish heat of the flames, the scattered bones, charred black, the only signs that people were inside when the city went up in flames. Ash falls like snow, dusting her hair and covering the Iron Throne. In Viserys' stories, the Iron Throne was a marvel to behold, a mighty symbol of the power their ancestors wielded, and that would be theirs to wield, once they took back what was theirs. He was to sit on the Iron Throne but for her there would be a silver throne with silken cushions, befitting a Queen. When she sees it for herself, she marvels that so many people fought, for so many centuries, over the right to sit in such an ugly chair.

She hears footsteps behind her but doesn't turn, not until she feels the sharp, burning pain of a blade forced through her back.

Then the world around her turns black.

The chair under Daenerys is not made of iron, its seat worn smooth by three centuries of rulers, and there are no sharp edges to pierce her skin. Its surface, of polished wood, is familiar to her. It is the ebony bench on which she sat on countless occasions to receive the petitioners who came before her.

Her face, wet with tears, is cupped between gentle hands, the fingertips that brush her temples smooth and warm.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps and her heartbeat is rapid and deafeningly loud in her ears.

When Daenerys first opens her eyes, for an instant, the only thing she sees is a pair of brown eyes, warm and ageless, set in a face almost completely concealed by an intricate mask of interlocking gold hexagons.

The patterns etched into the metal are familiar to her, but she can't remember where she has seen them before.

She blinks once, twice, and her vision gradually begins to clear.

The audience chamber of the Great Pyramid of Meereen comes into focus, evening sunlight streaming through the unglazed windows to illuminate the shadowy, high-ceilinged chamber.

Unsullied guards are stationed at the entrance of the chamber, and at the foot of the stairs leading up to the dais on which she sits, with Grey Worm positioned closest to her. She sees the Greyjoys standing to one side of the stairs, flanked by Tyrion Lannister, whose tunic is not adorned by the silver brooch she remembers pinning to it. Daario stands opposite, his stance casual but his eyes alert.

A sense of relief stronger than any she has ever felt before washes over her when she sees Missandei, alive and well and looking at her with grave concern. She reaches out desperately for her dear friend, and half-sobs when Missandei's hand finds hers and squeezes it reassuringly, her thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of her hand. Missandei asks no questions, but gives her the comfort she sorely needs.

She feels as if she should know the name of the woman leaning over her but she doesn't.

"Forgive me, child." The woman's voice is soft and full of compassion. She brushes the tears from Daenerys' cheeks as tenderly as a mother might, stroking her face gently before withdrawing her hand, straightening and moving back a pace or two, giving her space. "I could not spare you any of the pain. You needed to see it all. You needed to know."

"What have you done to her?" Daario's question is full of fury, his step quick and light as he bounds up the steps to stand by Daenerys' side. He has his hand on the hilt of his dagger, ready to slash the woman's throat if she has dared to harm her in any way. The memory of another blade, driven into her body by a man she loved, a man she believed loved her and was loyal to her, makes her shudder involuntarily. It comforts her to know that Daario's blade will only ever be wielded in her defence and in her cause, never against her.

Grey Worm likewise has his hand on the hilt of his short sword as he moves to her side, ready to lay his life between her and any who would seek to do her harm.

The woman ignores both men, her attention focused on Daenerys. "Do you know who I am?"

"No."

It's the truth, at least as far as she knows, but it's painfully clear to her that the answer is not what the others in the room, with the possible exception of the woman, expect. The Greyjoys share a puzzled glance. Tyrion Lannister looks troubled, as do Missandei and Grey Worm. Daario is both furious and fearful for her.

The woman does not introduce herself. She simply waits in silence.

After a few moments, the name comes to Daenerys, and with the name, her memory of the woman's arrival in the throne room, asking for an audience with the Queen of Meereen.

"Your name is Quaithe. You told me that you needed to show me."

"Yes," the woman… Quaithe… confirms. "Before you set sail for Westeros, you need to know what awaits you there."

Daenerys wants so badly to believe that it is a lie.

She wants to believe that this woman, this Quaithe, has been sent by one of her enemies, perhaps the warlocks of Qarth if any of them yet live, to deceive her with a vision of the bleakest future their black imaginations could conjure in order to dissuade her from returning to her homeland.

She has never believed that the common people of Westeros drink secret toasts to her honour, stitching dragon banners so that, when the last Targaryen finally reaches their shores, they will be ready to flock to her cause, to fight to see the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms restored to her father's throne at last. Viserys had believed that the common people were waiting for the return of their true King from the night they were smuggled across the Narrow Sea until his last breath. Viserys had needed to believe it; that belief, that hope, was all he had had to sustain him when men called him Beggar King and mocked his claim. Daenerys was under no such illusion. She had hoped, however, that once she had a chance to prove herself to them, once she showed them that she was there because she was determined to break the wheel that allowed the highborn to crush those beneath them, they would learn to trust her, and that her ascension to the throne of her ancestors would be a welcome one.

She wants so badly to believe that this vision, which confirms her deepest, most secret fear, that the people of Westeros will never see her as anything but the Mad King's Daughter, is a false one.

More than that, she desperately needs to believe that the people of Westeros are not right to consider her to be as mad and ruthless as the father she never knew.

"Prince Theon." The man, not many years older than she is, starts when she speaks his name, inclining his head slightly. "Please describe Jon Snow."

Theon Greyjoy exchanges a puzzled look with his sister, undoubtedly wondering why Daenerys would know the name of Ned Stark's bastard in the first place, let alone care enough about him to ask what he looks like, but at Yara's encouraging nod he obeys. His description of Jon matches that of the man she saw quite well, considering that it has been years since Theon last set eyes on him, when Jon was still more boy than man. At Daenerys' request, he goes on to describe Sansa Stark, his memory of her fresh and far more vivid, his words painting so clear a picture of the young woman that Daenerys cannot pretend that her vision is not a true one. He confirms that Bran Stark is crippled, and even confirms the name and colouring of Jon's direwolf.

Far from being offended by Daenerys' need for verification of the truth of the vision, Quaithe smiles her approval.

"Leave us."

The Greyjoys are the first to obey her command, sharing a curious look before withdrawing. She is in no doubt that as soon as they find a quiet corner, perhaps sooner than that if they don't feel any great need to protect her privacy, they will be speculating about what Quaithe could possibly have shown her to prompt such a reaction, wondering if they made a mistake crossing the Narrow Sea to join her cause. She cannot blame them if they have doubts. They came in search of a powerful Queen who would take back the Seven Kingdoms, give them vengeance against the uncle who murdered their father and snatched the rule of the Iron Islands from Yara, and recognise their domain as an independent kingdom once more, not a girl weeping and trembling in the face of a vision.

Tyrion Lannister wavers a moment or two longer, as if debating whether or not it would be wise for him to stay to learn more so that he may offer his counsel, but he opts to obey.

The Unsullied stationed as sentinels in the throne room do not actually leave her presence. As one, they turn on their heels and march to take up positions at the farthest edges of the chamber, far enough away that they will not be able to hear their conversation, provided that they keep their voices low, but not so far that they will not be able to protect her, should the need arise.

It is plain from the expression on her face that Missandei does not want to leave her side, and if truth be told, Daenerys cannot bear to let her out of her sight, not now, not after what she just bore witness to. She tightens her grip on her friend's hand, a silent signal that she should stay with her.

Neither Daario nor Grey Worm move a muscle, nor do they take their eyes off Quaithe.

She is ready to reiterate her command that they leave but decides that it would be a poor repayment for the service they have given her and the loyalty they have shown her if she shut them out now.

"How long was it?" She addresses her question to all four of them, but it is Missandei who answers.

"No more than a minute, Your Grace."

"How long was it for you?" Daario asks, more gently than she has ever heard him speak before.

"Months."

Once she begins to speak of what she saw, she cannot stop, not until she has shared the full horror of her future.

They have a right to know. They have a right to know what kind of Queen they serve. They have a right to know what she would have led them into. They have a right to know the evil that she is capable of. They have a right to know that she was never worthy of the loyalty they gave her.

"Horseshit!" Daario snaps as soon as she voices that thought. The Unsullied sentries do not give any sign that they have heard his exclamation, but all the same, he lowers his voice before he continues. "You risk everything to save their sorry hides from an army of dead monsters who would have wiped them all out if you hadn't been there, and they still spit on you? It sounds to me like Westeros got the Daenerys Stormborn it deserves."

She shakes her head vehemently. "The people didn't deserve that. I'm a monster, worse than Cersei or my father."

"You are no monster." Missandei sounds fiercer than Daenerys ever imagined her gentle friend could. "You are the woman who freed me, and hundreds of thousands of others, from our chains. A monster would have set sail for Westeros years ago, as soon as she had her army, not stayed in Meereen for the sake of strangers."

"This has not yet come to pass, my Queen," Grey Worm reminds her solemnly. "And it will not."

"He's right," Daario seconds him. "Even if you would have made mistakes before, now that you know what would happen if it all went wrong, you can change your future, everybody's future, for the better."

The thought is a tempting one.

If she sails to Westeros, armed with the knowledge Quaithe has gifted her with, surely she can reshape the future to her liking.

She will know better than to be guided by Tyrion's suggestion of an attack on Casterly Rock, a foolish piece of symbolism when she needs to strike at her enemies fast and hard enough that they have no chance to fight back. She can protect her allies, and take the fight to Cersei from the beginning, targeting only her enemy and those who fight for her, sparing the lives of the innocent people of King's Landing. If Cersei and her forces could not stand against her with two of her dragons and most of her warriors dead, they have no chance if she comes against them in full force. She can launch her attack from Dragonstone before Cersei Lannister has a chance to send for the Golden Company. She will have the might of six of the kingdoms behind her, and if the King in the North seeks her aid against the Night King and his army, she can name her terms, or leave the North to fight alone, as she chooses. She can keep Viserion far from the Night King's spear, she can destroy the Iron Fleet before Euron can shoot Rhaegal. She can safeguard her people, and ensure that their lives are not thrown away for the sake of those who despise them. She can build the better future she has dreamed of for so long.

Quaithe's expression is grave, and for a moment, Daenerys wonders if this woman can read her thoughts.

"Why did you show me this future? Is it so I can be a better Queen, one who deserves the love of her people?"

"Yes."

The answer should reassure her.

It doesn't.

The answer may be what she hoped to hear, but she knows from the grave expression on Quaithe's face that she has asked the wrong question.

"Is it so I can be a better Queen in Westeros, or in Meereen?"

"That is a choice that I cannot make for you. You were born in the West, but you have lived in the East. In the East, you are the Breaker of Chains, but you have learned that it is not enough to simply break chains, you must also ensure that those you have freed remain free. If you travel West, if you avoid the mistakes you have seen, you will sit on the Iron Throne, and you will rule the Seven Kingdoms well."

"But the people will never accept me, not in their hearts," Daenerys finishes for her. "They will seek to overthrow me."

The truth about Jon Snow's parentage will not remain a secret, no matter how wisely and well she rules the Seven Kingdoms, no matter how much she strives to improve the lot of the common people. Jon might pledge his fealty to her, as he had before, and he might be sincere in his vow not to seek the throne. He may even believe in his heart that she is the better choice to rule, and refuse to challenge her. Even so, he will insist that his sisters be told of his true origins. It won't matter if Jon swears them to secrecy, even if he makes them swear it before their gods. As soon as Sansa knows, she will seek to use the knowledge to her advantage, and that of her House.

To the eyes of the people of Westeros, she is tainted by both her family's blood and her foreign upbringing but Jon is one of them, of Stark blood as well as Targaryen, raised by a man admired for his honour.

They will seek to crown him King, whether he wills it or no.

"There will be conflict. Some will accept you, and support you. Others will want to see another in your place. You will not lose the throne, but you will never be free of attempts to take it from you. You will have to fight many battles to remain Queen, and each time you fight, you will prevail."

"These battles will mean that I must focus on the Seven Kingdoms, and leave this city to fend for itself."

The Masters will retake it easily, she realizes, instinctively tightening her grip on Missandei's hand, and feeling the other woman squeeze her hand in return.

She planned to leave Daario behind, heeding Tyrion Lannister's advice that she could not take him with her if she wanted to use her marriage to bind one of the great Houses to her, and to leave the Second Sons with him to keep the peace, but they would not be able to stand alone against the forces of the slave cities if they attacked again. It was the combined threat of the Second Sons, the Unsullied, the Dothraki and her dragons who would keep them at bay, and if she needed to keep all of her forces in Westeros to defend her hold on the Iron Throne, the Masters would be quick to take advantage of Meereen's vulnerability. The men, women and children she had freed would be chained once more, with the Masters exacting violent retribution against them for their short years of liberty, so that they might serve as an example to all other slaves who dared to dream of freedom.

"That is so," Quaithe confirms. "You must choose."

"What of Ser Jorah? He is travelling to Westeros for a cure. He will expect me to be there when he recovers." She cannot lose him, not again, not even if it means that she must travel to Dragonstone to be reunited with him.

"You need not fear for him, child. He will be cured of his affliction, and he will come to you, wherever you are."

"Will Jon Snow be able to defeat the Night King if my armies and my dragons do not fight?"

"No."

She asks one final question, and when she hears Quaithe's answer, there is only one choice she can make.

TBC.