Game of Thrones: Rise of the Supreme Dragon Queen

It was a vast hall, seemingly hosting a feast. At first, it appeared to be a lively celebration, but soon transformed into a macabre banquet of the dead.

There wasn't a single living soul in the room. It seemed the attendees of the feast had been brutally slaughtered. Mutilated corpses slumped against overturned chairs and splintered high tables, their blood pooling and congealing into black puddles on the tabletops and floor.

Some had their limbs severed. On the black oak table, disembodied hands clutched blood-soaked goblets, wooden spoons, roasted ducks, and loaves of bread. Others were decapitated, their headless bodies leaning awkwardly while their severed heads rolled on the ground like balls.

At the far end of the hall, atop a wooden throne, sat a terrifying figure—a corpse with the head of a wolf. It wore an iron crown, and on the oak table before it were slices of bread, plates, goblets, pitchers, cutlery, and candlesticks.

Oddly, its right hand grasped a lamb shank as if it were a royal scepter.

What was most unsettling, however, was that unlike the dwarves who had ignored her earlier, the wolf-headed figure's eyes followed Dany. Its gaze was filled with complex emotions, seemingly a silent accusation.

"The Red Wedding!" Dany instantly understood the scene's significance.

She was ecstatic. For the first time, she was certain she had glimpsed the future.

The Red Wedding was still one or two years away, but here she was, witnessing its outcome.

"Serves you right!" she shouted at Robb Stark's specter before turning to leave the room.

What Dany didn't know was that early the next morning, Robb Stark, fresh from his victory at the Whispering Wood, awoke in terror from a nightmare.

"Mother, I dreamed of someone last night," he said over breakfast, confusion evident on his face.

Having just captured Jaime Lannister, Lady Catelyn was in a relatively good mood and asked gently, "Who did you dream of?"

"A strange girl."

"Strange?"

"She wore a beautiful and unusual dress," Robb said, struggling to describe it. "It was tight-fitting, with intricate patterns, and she carried a bamboo basket on her back. Inside the basket was a black dragon."

"Dragons have been extinct for over a century," Catelyn remarked.

"She wasn't much older than me," Robb continued, his brows furrowing. "She had silver hair and violet eyes. She looked like... a Targaryen!"

"A Targaryen girl of that age does exist," Catelyn said, her expression turning serious. "The Mad King's daughter, Daenerys Targaryen. I heard she married a Dothraki khal a year ago. Did you get a good look at her? What did she look like?"

"She was very beautiful," Robb admitted. "More beautiful than... Sansa, even. More refined than Cersei Lannister. And livelier."

"Then it's likely her," Catelyn concluded with a nod. "The Targaryens were known for their striking looks. But why would you dream of her? You've never even met her."

"I don't know," Robb admitted. "But the dream was terrifying. It felt like I was in the seventh layer of hell."

Robb's eyes lit with a sudden realization. "If I defeat the Lannisters and Baratheon refuses to allow the North and the Riverlands to secede—since those two territories combined make up more than half of Westeros—I might end up fighting Baratheon next.

If I win again... if my aunt Lysa Arryn sends her forces to help me—she fears the Lannisters but not the Baratheons—that's a very real possibility."

"Uniting the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, you could defeat Baratheon," Catelyn said, following his line of thought. "If that happens, you could take the Iron Throne, replacing the late Robert Baratheon. But then, you'd become Daenerys Targaryen's greatest enemy."

"If she truly has dragons or some dragon-like power—such as a horde of ten thousand screaming Dothraki warriors—you'd likely be no match for her.

And as the Mad King's daughter, it's not unlikely she's inherited his madness.

If you're defeated by such a vengeful and crazed Targaryen, you're doomed. The North would be utterly destroyed. That outcome would be worse than descending into the seventh hell."

"Did she say anything to you in the dream?" Catelyn asked, growing tense.

"'Serves you right,'" Robb said, his face pale. "She coldly told me, 'Serves you right.'"

"Ah! Then there's no doubt," Catelyn exclaimed. "It must be your father, recently departed, sending you a warning through the dream—to beware of that last Targaryen princess."

"Robb, do you want the Iron Throne?" she asked, locking eyes with him.

"I only want to avenge Father and secure the North's independence," Robb replied without hesitation.

"But your dream... your future..." Catelyn murmured, her worry deepening.

"Ah, I truly have no desire to conquer the world. As for the Iron Throne in King's Landing, I feel no yearning for it at all. Why, why must they force me? I don't want to be the King of the Seven Kingdoms!" Robb cried out in anguish.

The scene shifted back to the present, returning to Dany's perspective.

When Drogon swung his tail and opened the third door, Dany found herself looking at a scene both familiar and strange. It was a house with a red-painted door, adorned with intricately carved animal faces on its massive wooden beams. Outside, a lemon tree stood in the yard.

This was her childhood home in Braavos, where she had lived until she was five.

The night Daenerys was born, the Targaryen dynasty had already fallen, replaced by the Baratheons. Only Dragonstone, guarded by a loyal fleet, remained under Targaryen control.

But the night of her birth was marked by tragedy. Not only did her mother, Queen Rhaella, die in childbirth, but a ferocious, once-in-a-millennium storm wrecked the surrounding seas. The Targaryen fleet, undefeated in battle, was annihilated by nature's fury.

Thus, Daenerys earned the name Stormborn.

The queen's death shattered what remained of Targaryen power. The fleet's destruction left Dragonstone vulnerable, and even its regent began to waver, considering surrendering the Targaryen children to the Baratheons.

However, the storm had also decimated the Baratheon fleet laying siege to Dragonstone, granting the Targaryens a chance to flee.

Ser Willem Darry, a white-haired, half-blind former master-at-arms, along with four loyal retainers, smuggled Viserys and the newborn Daenerys to safety in Braavos.

Under Ser Willem's care, young Dany experienced five of the happiest years of her life.

But those golden days ended when Ser Willem died. Deceived by servants, Dany and Viserys lost their home and began their endless exile across foreign lands.

For Dany, the house with the red door became a symbol of her happiest memories, a place she cherished and could never forget.

Now, as the scene from her deepest memories materialized before her eyes, even Ser Willem appeared. Leaning heavily on a cane, he shuffled forward with slow, deliberate steps.

"Little Princess, you've returned!" His voice was raspy but full of affection. "Come to me, my lady. You're home now, and you're safe."

His wrinkled hand extended toward her, soft like old leather.

"This illusion is so vivid," Dany murmured, clicking her tongue in amazement as she glanced around.

"Come here, my little princess. What are you talking about—what illusion?" the old man called, still beckoning to her.

It could even respond to her?

This... this felt uncanny, plunging into the uncanny valley. Dany froze, then spun around and bolted.

The corridor stretched endlessly before her, its left side lined with countless doors, while torches burned on the right.

She had no idea how many doors she had passed—some closed, some ajar, some made of wood, others of iron. Some were ornately carved, others plain. Some had handles, others locks or knockers.

At least they all resembled doors—until she saw one that barely qualified as such.

Dany screeched to a halt. This was no door but a simple curtain of rough cowhide.

A powerful urge welled up within her, as if the very reason she had entered the House of the Undying was not to find the Undying Ones, but to pass through this curtain.

Drogon's tail, hooked like a grappling hook, swept the curtain aside.

Beyond it lay an endless grassland—the Dothraki Sea.

A river wound through the grass, and along its banks, a pale white horse carried two children.

The horse faced away from Dany, obscuring its head and the faces of its riders.

The child in front leaned against the horse's neck, while the silver-haired girl sitting behind wore a painted vest and wept bitterly. Her cries were weak and filled with pain.

The horse moved farther and farther away until it vanished beyond Dany's sight. Only then did she snap out of her trance.

"Is this the past? Daenerys and Viserys? But when they were children, that girl wasn't wearing a Dothraki painted vest," Dany murmured in confusion. Subconsciously, she felt this vision was significant, but she couldn't decipher its meaning.

A sharp screech broke her thoughts.

Drogon lowered the cowhide curtain and let out a piercing cry, urging her to move forward.

Dany silently committed the scene she had just witnessed to memory and continued to the next room.

A pair of massive bronze doors opened automatically as she approached, revealing a grand and majestic stone hall. The high walls on either side were adorned with the mounted heads of dead dragons, staring coldly down at the chamber below.

Directly ahead sat an elderly man on a towering, spiked throne. His richly embroidered robes could not hide the dimness in his eyes or the silver-gray of his hair.

"Let me rule over scorched bones and roasted flesh," he said to a man below him. "Let me be the King of Ashes!"

"King's Landing, the Red Keep, the Iron Throne, the Mad King Aerys?" Dany immediately understood and paused to observe.

"Your Grace, have you truly made your decision?" the man below, dressed in the robes of a pyromancer, asked with fervent excitement.

"I am the true dragon. I shall be reborn in fire!" The Mad King on the Iron Throne waved his arms in a frenzy. "Bury the wildfire across King's Landing without missing a single corner. I will be crowned anew amidst ashes and bones!"

"Oh my gods, what a lunatic!"

Hearing the Mad King and his pyromancer discuss how to burn all 500,000 citizens of King's Landing to death sent chills down Dany's spine. Her bare arms broke out in goosebumps.

Leaving the bronze doors behind, she came upon another door that opened automatically at her arrival.

Inside the ornately decorated wooden door, studded with red copper nails, was a bedroom.

A prince who looked almost identical to Viserys was speaking to a woman on a grand wooden bed as she nursed a newborn.

"We'll name him Aegon. Is there a better name for a king?"

Dany immediately understood—this was another scene from the past, within the Red Keep: Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia Martell.

The newborn in Elia's arms, Aegon, was the little prince who had been smashed against the wall like a melon.

Princess Elia asked her husband, "Will you write him a song?"

"He already has a song," Rhaegar said solemnly. "He is the prince that was promised. His song is the Song of Ice and Fire."

As he spoke, he lifted his head, and his gaze seemed to lock with Dany's, as if time had folded and they now existed in the same moment.

"There's another," he said. Dany felt a chill run through her as if this long-dead brother were speaking directly to her. "The dragon has three heads. There's another."

"Mother of...!" Dany's face turned pale, and she cursed as she spun around and bolted.

She was utterly certain now. Rhaegar, dead for fifteen years, had spoken to her. He had told her that three dragons needed three riders. Besides herself and Aegon, there was another... Targaryen?

But Aegon had long been dead, and the Targaryen bloodline had dwindled to just her.

Or perhaps... Jon Snow, the male lead, who was also a Targaryen.

(End of Chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09