Chapter 0 - A Fallen Queen

So, a couple of notes. First of all, English is not my first language and I think I messed up quite a bit with the verb tenses. If there's anyone interested in correcting my grammar, I'd be most grateful.
Secondly, the story draws from both the books and the show. Daenerys obviously comes from the show, since in the books she's either 15 or 16, but she retains some memories and experiences of her paper counterpart. Likewise, the Missandei briefly mentioned here is the one from the show, because in the books she's a child, whereas in the show she's all grown up and old enough that she could be in a porn movie. Personally, I think she SHOULD be in one, but unfortunately that's up to Nathalie Emmanuel to decide.
Oh, it's also my first story. So, if you have any suggestion or criticism at all I'll be glad to read it.




She had no idea how long she'd been lying in that bed. The pain in her belly, once sharp and fresh, had by then dulled down, only a ghost of its former fierceness. It renewed whenever she tried moving, although that proved difficult and painful in itself, due to the rough rope tying her hands together and cutting her skin. Her arms hurt, too.

Every time she tried taking her mind off the pain, she came back to the same thoughts, the same haunting question.

“How could this happen?”

The last memories she had were filled with hope and freedom, the sun shining down on her new followers – her new army – while she flew on Drogon's back all the way up to the clouds, enjoying the feeling so few have experienced in history. She liked it, up in the sky. She felt powerful, shielded from the perils that she knew awaited her in the near future. She saw it clearly, while Drogon flapped its wings lifting her up ever higher. The sea extended all the way to the West, a vast blue giant that stood between her and her home. Her birthright. Such a long way away it lied and the usurpers would be ready for her when she arrived. But she was flying, flying high on her dragon, the first woman to do so in more than a hundred years, and she felt invincible.

It was up there, on one of their flights, that she'd first seen Meereen again. It was just a speck on the horizon, a bit of land seeming to eat into the sea. But when, elated, she'd spurred Drogon onwards, she'd soon seen the signs of war. Smoke was rising from the city. First a faint wisp, which then grew into a huge black column. Faster and faster Drogon flew, and ships began to emerge from the sea, pyramids became distinct from the vague mass of stone that was Meereen. And then she saw the fireballs coming from the ships, hitting her city, killing the people she'd sworn to protect.

From that moment on it was all a daze. Outrage, then fury and steely determination filled her mind,  a vow to herself to rid the world of these slavers once and for all. The little man had made her appreciate the value of diplomacy. She thought he was right.

And now here she was. In a cold, dark room, chained to a bed, every muscle in her body aching.

What had happened to Missandei? And her dragons... why hadn't Drogon come when she'd called him? Maybe they... No, that was a question she wanted to avoid. And what about her new army? “They should have come by now.” She'd given Daario clear instructions.

Daario... a pang of deep dread clenched her stomach. In the endless hours of her captivity she'd often caught herself wondering if he'd betrayed her. After all, he was a sellsword, lover of gold before all else. “Even before me?” That was another question she couldn't bring herself to answer. But no, she knew him. Even Jorah had come to trust him in the end. If he hadn't come yet, that meant he was still traveling towards the city. Lots can go wrong when you're moving thousands of people – and not all of them were horsed. The thought made her relax a little, the knot in her stomach slowly loosening. “Yes, it must be.” How could the slavers have defeated thousands of Dothraki? How could they know they were coming? The more she reflected on this, the more she grew certain. Help was on the way.

That is, assuming Daario hadn't always planned on betraying her, feeding information to her enemies, who then would have known both when to strike the city and how to defeat her army.

And so time passed, as her restless mind kept moving from the cold reality of her prison, all the unknowns of how this had come to pass and the hope of a lover's rescue.

And sometimes, her belly ached again, reminding her of the visit of the scarred man.

He had come after many hours of blackness, perhaps as many as had passed since the visit. The look he had given her then... that was the worst thing of all. Worse than his fist robbing her lungs of air, worse than his member dragged on her face, on her breasts... No, that look would haunt in her hours of loneliness. He'd stopped at the door and run his eyes all over her body. She was used to men watching her, wanting her. She'd come to expect it from every man she met, even liking it. But that was not the look of a man smitten by her beauty, nor a lusty one, either. He'd been assessing her. He'd looked at her like she was a thing. A possession. A slave.

That word resounded loudly in her mind. All that she'd fought to defeat, to change... The breaker of chains. She clenched her fists. She wouldn't be treated like a thing, not ever. No man could tame a dragon. She'd fight them, give up her life if she had to. Better that than a life of slavery.

Missandei had told her, sometimes, of what her enslavement had been like. She'd been a slave since her childhood, it was the only life she'd known before Daenerys had come to Astapor. She said that she knew many slaves who not only didn't begrudge their condition, they actually found comfort in living under a master. Deferring all the important choices, moving and acting only when you are told: all these things made life easier. And some masters could be decent, even friendly, as long as you obeyed and did your duty properly.

Daenerys had listened with disbelief.

“How could anyone enjoy a life in chains?”

Missandei had lowered her eyes at that question. Then the queen knew. She knew many slaves, she'd said... and she was one of them.

“It really wasn't that bad, my queen. Kraznys could be brutal, but also generous with slaves who behaved. I was one of his favorites.”

She didn't understand it then. She didn't understand it now. To be confined... deprived of your freedom. Once you knew what it was like to fly, how could you live inside a cage?

And yet those words and Missandei's look of resigned acceptance were gnawing at her. She hadn't given in to the khals who had brought her to Vaes Dothrak, but she had never doubted Daario, then. Hope had come easier. Could she become like Missandei had been? Could she come to kneel in front of the scarred man and call him her master? Again, she tensed up.

“No.”

She tried saying that out loud, but all she heard was a muffled sound blocked by her gag. Another gift of the scarred man. She made to move forward, as to get up from bed, but her binds kept her in place. Pain gushed from her wrists and feet again, in the points where her sore skin was bleeding around the rope. Her mouth, gagged with the same rope, was cut too.

She fell back on the bed, that moment of resolve already fading, leaving her with her fears. When would he come again? Would he give her the same look?

She'd been the first to break the silence. That was what had earned her the red bruise on her stomach and the rope in her mouth.

“You think you'll get away with this? Free me now and I'll be merciful.”

That was stupid. She hated herself for that. She wanted to sound confident and unfazed, but she only seemed deluded. He knew that, and he laughed in her face. But her hopes were higher then and she kept going.

“Every time you disrespect me, you...”

“I cannot disrespect you, for you no longer deserve any respect. You are not a person now, you are my property.”

“I am Queen Daenerys...”

“You are no longer queen of anything. That bed you are chained to, Breaker of Chains, is the only realm you'll know for a long time, and that too is mine. Your reign is over.”

She winced, remembering her own words. She could see what he'd seen: a little girl, tied down at the mercy of her enemy, trying to convince herself of something that looked now so desperately untrue. But he had mocked her and the words just came out unbidden.

“My reign has just begun.”

Oh, how he'd laughed.

“I am willing to forgive a little disobedience, for this is our first proper encounter. But from now on you will keep your mouth closed until it is of any use for me.”

“Unchain me.”

And then his fist had crashed on her belly so savagely that she didn't hear what he said next. But the message got through. “Shut up, I said, and you will obey.” That's when he'd gagged her, as further insurance of her compliance.

The punch itself didn't bother her. Viserys had done so much worse to her, whenever she would “wake the dragon,” as he liked to say. She had spent her childhood and early youth learning to live with physical pain and how to please her brother in order to avoid it. Yet sometimes his blows would come regardless, simply caused by his frustration whenever his plans to rise to the Iron Throne would come to a stall. And yet she loved him. Did that make her so different from Missandei?

“He was my brother.” She found herself missing him now, of all people. Her big brother and her, running around the lemon tree in Braavos, in the house with the red door.

She was crying, now. So much had happened... His dreams to reclaim his birthright – their birthright – had passed on to her. She had pursued them with a fierceness, a strength her brother had never had or never known she was capable of. And then they'd moved to the background, losing urgency in the face of the hundreds of thousands of people in chains she had encountered. How could she leave them like that? She had a duty towards them. Mhysa, they called her, and she liked that.

But never had she given up on that dream. Because it wasn't a dream, in her mind. It was her purpose. And that's what stung in the words of the scarred man, what had made her speak out in such a childish way. “Your reign is over.” It still seemed to echo in the dark room, adding to the chill she felt on her naked body.

The man had ripped her bodice to pieces, cut her breeches open with a knife that had brushed against her skin, then unceremoniously torn off her smallclothes.

Nakedness didn't scare her either. Nor did the cold, for cold is nothing to a dragon. But again, that appraising look... That hadn't left his face, never replaced by lust even as he freed his sex from his breeches and started stroking it and dragging it on her face.

She'd kept her eyes locked on his, looking for any sign of weakness, almost wishing he'd take her like so many men had wanted to do. She would think of Daario then, and of Drogo, and this would be nothing but a bad dream. It was a power struggle, that she knew. It didn't matter whether he enjoyed it or not or whether he took her or not. He could do it, he could do anything he wanted,

(“you are my property”)

and he was proving the point.

In the end, he didn't even release his seed. He straddled her, leaning painfully on her bruised belly, and then simply checked her ropes and tucked his member back inside his breeches.

And with that, he was gone.

“Not today,” she thought. “And not tomorrow, for my army is coming and this city will be nothing but dust come dawn. You just lost your only chance.”

Sounds from the outside came in softened by the thick door. Every so often, she recognized the clinking of armors and, every time, her heart leapt. “Have they come for me?” Then, every time, they faded.

She had no idea how long she'd been lying in that bed. But she knew the scarred man, the man who called himself her master, would come back, becoming her only way to measure time. He would be the only human being she would see until he decided otherwise. He would bring food. Wouldn't he? If they wanted her dead, she'd be dead. He would become her only connection to the outside, a beacon in endless, dark days and nights seamlessly following one another.

Viserys had locked her in a room, once, during their brief stay in Tyrosh. She didn't remember what had caused that particular outburst of anger, only that she thought it unjustified. It was often the case, with her brother. Furious, he'd screamed that she would stay in there until she learned how to behave properly. Maybe she had scorned a suitor? She had been in the room for days, she reckoned. He didn't bring her food. She had to do her business in a corner and sleep on the floor. Her back had hurt for days, after that. Until one day, Viserys opened the door. He'd looked at her sternly.

“Have you learnt your lesson?”

Starved and hurting, she'd said “yes brother, of course brother, I'm sorry brother.”

A smile had lightened his brother's face.

“Then come and hug me, sweet sister. You're forgiven.”

She'd run as fast as her weakened body could allow towards the open arms of her only family. The same man who beat her regularly, had just locked her in a room for days and would one day sell her to a khal.

And oh, how had she loved him.
