Slowly, ashes swirling around her, she ascended the steps to the Iron Throne. Forged in Fire and Blood, the symbol of forced unity her ancestors had impressed upon the warring kingdoms of Westeros. Almost reverently she touched the sharp blades of bent and partially melted steel protruding at all angles from the abominable monstrosity. It had served its purpose, though not in the way the Conqueror had envisioned, spurred on by the dire warning of Daenys final dragondream.

For years she had struggled to understand this final moment of her vision in the House of the Undying. Tried to wrest meaning from the utter destruction it had shown her. Her birthright, the throne of her forefathers surrounded by death and devastation.

She had firmly believed herself a savior. A bringer of light, of freedom, of peace. Surely, there was a way to avoid this carnage. But the brutal, inevitable truth was that it wasn't. Not if she wished to stay true to her goal to finally break the wheel that ground the smallfolk, the abused, exploited and enslaved masses into dust.

But then, in the devastating days and weeks after the loss of Jorah and Missandei, she had received the first confirmation of the righteousness of her cause. Against all hope, Daario had succeed in completing what she had started. The son of a whore, risen from a back alley to be the leader of the freed slaves of Meereen, had smashed all remnants of resistance in Slavers Bay and crushed the Iron Legions of New Ghis in open battle. The defeat of the last slaver stronghold had rung like a clarion call all over the Free Cities, spread like wildfire by the priests of Rhllor. From Pentos to Volantis, Norvos to Lys, slaves had risen in their thousands against the masters. Deprived of their formerly endless supply of sellswords and slave soldiers, to old order was being swept away by the tidal wave of their unleashed fury.

It had given her hope. Even when all seemed lost, when it seemed she was doomed to repeat her forefather's tyranny to curb and control the Westerosi nobility's desire to play their deadly, foolish game, it had reignited the fire of faith in her mission.

It had begun with the Eunuch. While his goals seemed so similar to hers, his focus on maintaining the tyranny that was the Iron Throne along with his frightening ability to manipulate events in his favor were the first of the remaining obstacles she had to remove to achieve her desires. When she heard the ringing of the bells mounted atop Drogon on the walls of Kings Landing, she recognized the second one. The Kingdom was more than the Iron Throne, true, but the Throne and the City were it's most powerful symbols, and to shatter it, the symbols had to be destroyed first. The Line of Kings, her line, was the last.

Knowing what had to happen, she had sent off her guards. This would happen on her terms. None of them would be enobled by bringing about her death. This would be the Dragons' final dance.

She felt him approach more than she heard him and she called out to her last remaining child to join them. She could see it in his eyes. The anguish, the pain, the terrible burden of knowledge of what he would have to do. She envied him in a way. He would live. Her last remaining relative, the man that in another, kinder life she might have married and raised a family with at Summerhall. He would be her last instrument to complete her goal, but he would live nevertheless, hopefully with those that would truly appreciate what he had sacrificed for them.

Grey Worm had been given clear instructions of what was to happen. He would be firm, insistent on punishment, to protect him from the grasping hands of scheming siblings and false friends who would use him to their own end. A final gift to the last of her kin.

Surely, they would struggle on without him. They might even succeed in creating a false stability for a while. But soon their ambitions would overtake their ability to reason.

The stubbornness of the foolish northern girl would lay the first seeds of the inevitable destruction of the old order.

In the Iron Islands the thralls now outnumbered the nobles to such an extent that it was questionable how long the Greyjoy girl, already weakened by the greed of the remaining reaver houses, would be able to hold it all together.

In Dorne, the arrogant Bloodroyal would soon find himself embroiled in a civil war against all the other former petty kings kept in check since the arrival of Princess Nymeria.

In the Reach, the Hightowers, Fossoways, Florents and all the other noble fools would dig out their family trees to stake a claim to Highgarden.

The Riverlands, tenuous and full of strife at the best of times, soon would tire of the impotent fool sat in Riverun.

In the Vale, it was only a matter of time when the entitled fool of House Royce would either try to entice his childish lord to make a play at marrying the Queen in the North, by force if needs be, or take power for himself.

Her appointment of the bastard Baratheon blacksmith in the Stormlands would enrage and divide the remaining Stormlords, many of whom had Baratheon or even Durrandon roots themselves.

The West finally would never accept a dwarf, no matter how clever, and what remained of the mewling cats would tear each other apart to stake claim to Tywin's cursed inheritance.

The self styled Queen in the North, half Andal herself, if she wasn't staving off suitors among her banners or ambitious Valemen, would have to contend with incursions of the Faith of the Seven, who would see her as a means to spread their poisonous faith of subservience to the last stronghold of the Old Way. Yet, the Starks might endure but they would never rest easy, not with the constant threat of her nephew's people beyond the crumbling Wall.

In the end, maybe in years, maybe in decades, but surely in a century or two, the smallfolk, tired and weary of the strife would realize they were no different to the slaves in Essos and rise up and sweep away what remained of their foolish and entitled noble masters. Kinvara and her Faithful would ensure it. That had been the message Melisandre of Asshai had seen in the flames and carried with her to Volantis.

Of course, peace would be fleeting, war inevitable, but never again would men rule over others simply because their station of birth gave them a right to it.

He was close now, so very close. For the last time, to make his task easier, she wore her mask of mad rapture and spoke words that twisted her dreams into nightmares. She focused on the feeling of his lips on hers, the taste of desperate love in his kiss sustaining her through the pain that would finally take her back to her Sun and Stars…

Dracarys, Drogon… Farewell nephew…

A/N: I personally was enraged with that moronic flippant comment about Daenerys by D&D. Especially when they did such a piss poor job developing the characters there. I hold out hope, if that's how it ends, that GRRM does a much better job at writing it. I also hope that we are left with a little bit more than everything going back to the shitshow of slavery and entitled nobility from before this whole thing started...