Author's note: So, thank you for checking this out? This is based on roleplays and theoretical worldbuilding discussions with friends and.. yeah. Have mercy. Daenerys deserved better. Yes, I know this chapter is short. I am mooostly testing the waters to see whether this is something people would be generally down to! x3

When the sea swallowed Drogon's brothers, their hearts have been one: grief, sorrow, fear, anger. When the knight died in her arms, he'd felt his mother's sorrow and her love and her grief and all the things she never said, like humans do. When she felt nothing but anger and despair, so did he. Their hearts were one, split into two. Yet half of his heart was silent now, stilled by betrayal. There she lay in the grass, his mother, his lover, his bonded, his rider. The emptiness Drogon felt had nothing to do with the freedom he'd enjoyed, away from her. For the first time, he could no longer feel her, and all that this connection meant. Her will, her feelings, her anger, her hopes, her grievances, her fire. Still, he did not leave – as though this story was not finished just yet. Something important, something grand was still to happen.

And so he waited, and no coyote, no fox and no vulture dared to sit by the corpse of Daenerys Stormborn. Here, just a few miles south of Pentos, her story would continue.

The sun set and rose once more and Drogon raised his head slightly. The morning breeze carried the salt of the sea and the scent of a human. Hunger gnawed at his intestines, hunger and exhaustion, and still he sat by his mother's body valiantly. She was cold, and white, and did not budge when he pressed his snout against her side once more, as though the touch itself could bring her back somehow. It did not, and, with a roar of frustration, he took off, only to land on a rock a couple of feet away, the body of his beloved still well in his sight. The scent of death, of her dead, cold flesh, was almost unbearable.

Eventually, the scent carried by the wind was accompanied by a body, a lone rider. The horse stopped well away by a low tree, and Drogon watched the human fiddle around with the ropes they all needed to ride their horses. They had no bonds with them, not the way a dragon could bond with a human. Attentively, he watched the human approach alone, and his agitation grew with each step the stranger took towards him. Something great would happen, something greater than his hunger.

The human was a woman, with raven hair and dark clothes, and she stopped when Drogon growled, loud enough to be heard. Then, she continued her approach and he watched her kneel next to Daenerys' body. His claws dug into the dry, sparse grass as he approached them to see better. He felt magic in this stranger, the way he had felt it coming from the traitor and the woman in red. Mother, traitor, Firewoman. Stranger. They all shared this power he and his brothers were made of.

The woman touched the hilt of the knife, still in Daenerys' chest, and looked up questioningly. She must take the lack of reaction as permission, for she pulled the knife from the wound, and turned it in her hands thoughtfully. He could feel this woman's doubt, but also hope, and he placed his head down in the grass, keeping a watchful eye on her. Maybe this was what he felt he must wait for.

"Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Awaken. Daenerys the Unburnt, rise," she said, slowly undoing the many braids, the only crown Daenerys got to wear. The movements of her hands were almost reverently slow, and the bloody dagger rested in her lap. "Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Awaken. Daenerys the Unburnt, rise."

Drogon growled softly when the woman used Jon Snow's dagger to cut off a silver lock of hair, about four inches, yet a surge of magic manifesting soothed him, and replaced anger with a faint gleam of hope. The silver caught fire, and carefully, the woman placed the burning strand on top of the stab wound where the blade had pierced Daenerys' good, loving, bleeding heart.

"Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Awaken. Daenerys the Unburnt, rise," she repeated as the scent of burning hair rose up, and she cut off another couple of inches from another strand of hair, which she set on fire and placed on Daenerys' chest once the previous one had burnt down.

Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson, Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, Awaken. Daenerys the Unburnt, rise. She repeated this over and over, over and over, and the air was heavy with magic. The sun would set soon, and she kept repeating it, tireless, over and over, and the words rang in their heads and their hearts.

From one moment to the next, Drogon could feel it: a fire reignited, a flame that spread like wildfire. As Daenerys Targaryen took a deep, gasping breath, he roared into the evening, and the woman recoiled with a gasp of surprise as the no longer dead woman heaved for air as though she has almost drowned. The fires were back.

The Mother of Dragons was alive.