Chapter Text
Hot.
Burning.
Fire.
That was the last thing Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen remembered feeling.
Her skin blistering.
Her voice torn raw from screaming.
Her body consumed by dragonflame.
And then—Nothing.
Now, as the late queen opened her eyes, the first thing she felt was confusion.
The first thing she saw... was nothing at all. An endless abyss of black stretched in every direction. No sky. No ground. No stars. Only darkness, thick and suffocating.
Where am I?
She tried to squint, willing shapes to form from the void. When that failed, she forced herself to stand. Her body ached — but not with the searing agony of before. Not with fire.
Tentatively, she looked down at her hands. Her skin was whole. Smooth. Untouched. No burns. No peeling flesh. No ash. it was the skin she had before her half-brother had her killed.
A tremor worked its way through her.
"You're safe here, girl." The voice was deep. Ancient. It echoed without direction, as though the darkness itself had spoken.
Rhaenyra jumped, spinning in place, her pulse hammering.
"Name yourself," she demanded, forcing steel into her voice, though fear coiled tight in her chest.
A low chuckle reverberated through the abyss.
"You hold no power here, girl. You may not demand anything." The laugh that followed made the hairs along her arms rise, her heart pounding faster than a Dothraki stallion at full gallop.
"Please," she corrected quickly, swallowing her pride. "I cannot see. Do you serve Aegon?"
Even in death, she would not underestimate him. Cruelty was a language he spoke fluently.
"I serve no king," the voice replied. "If you would truly open your eyes, child, you would see. You are dead."
The words struck harder than dragonfire.
"Killed by your half-brother's dragon. You stand now in the in-between. And I will decide where you go from here." the voice says.
Dead. The in-between? Rhaenyra went still. Her arms folded over herself instinctively, seeking comfort that was not there. Her sweet boy — Aegon. Was he alive? Had they spared him? Had they— Her breath hitched.
If this being held power... if he truly ruled this place... She would bargain, she would kneel.
She would offer anything.
Even now, fury simmered beneath her grief. She swore by the old gods of Valyria, she would see her usurper brother dead — screaming as she had screamed.
No matter the cost.
A breath ghosted against the back of her neck.
Her entire body froze.
"Even in death, you seek revenge?" the voice murmured, power woven into every syllable.
"Revenge. Vengeance. Retaliation," she answered steadily. "Call it what you will. I want it."
She did not care who stood behind her. God or demon. Her anger burned hotter than the flames that had killed her.
"And what if I told you," the voice said softly, "that I could offer you that... and more?"
Her throat tightened.
She could feel him now — close. Towering. Watching.
The queen in her demanded she turn and face him.
The frightened girl within whispered not to.
Could he truly give me what I desire?
Do I even know what that is anymore?
"Turn around," the voice commanded, regal and absolute. "See me. Know me. Then decide."
Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, steadying herself. She had faced dragons. She had faced war. She had faced death. Slowly, she turned.
At first, there was only darkness.
Then—
Light exploded before her, blinding and brilliant. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, blinking rapidly as her vision adjusted.
When she lowered her hand, her breath left her entirely.
A man stood before her.
He was the very image of Old Valyria.
His hair was pure white, falling like silk to his shoulders. His eyes shone a vivid amethyst, sharp and knowing. From within his pale hair curved two black horns, long and spiraled, each the length of her forearm.
He wore armor the color of obsidian, yet it shimmered faintly, as though forged from something not of this world. Scales lined the surface. Jagged, dragon-like ridges rose from his shoulders.
He was terrible.
He was beautiful.
He was not mortal.
A Valyrian god.
And as if sensing her realization, he smiled.
"You are a god," Rhaenyra whispered.
"Yes." His voice carried the weight of ages. "My name is Belerion. God of Death and the Afterlife."
The name sent a chill through her.
"I do not meet every soul who crosses into my realm," he continued. "But you, Rhaenyra Targaryen, are... a special case."
Confusion flickered across her face.
"A special case?" she repeated.
His amethyst gaze darkened.
"Your bloodline has served us since before your histories were written. We gifted your ancestors dragons, fire made flesh. We entrusted you with them."
He stepped closer, and the air grew heavy.
"They were never meant to be shackled. Never meant to be weapons in your petty wars. Dragons are not beasts. They are fragments of divinity. Companions. Kin." His voice hardened."And yet your house turned them against one another."
Images flashed in her mind, dragon against dragon, wings tearing, fire colliding in the sky.
"The war you call the Dance of the Dragons," Belerion continued, "did not merely destroy a kingdom. It shattered what we bestowed upon you. It led to the extinction of dragonkind. To silence. To loss."
His gaze pinned her in place.
"You were meant to protect them."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
"And instead," he finished quietly, "your war ended them."
Silence fell between them, heavy and suffocating.
For the first time since her death, Rhaenyra's fury faltered.
Because somewhere beneath the rage and grief... She knew he was not entirely wrong.
Rhaenyra's jaw tightened. "They would have died regardless," she said, though her voice lacked its earlier conviction. "Dragons fight. It is their nature."
Belerion tilted his head slightly.
"Yes," he agreed. "They fight."
With a single lift of his hand, the darkness around them shattered. The abyss fractured like glass — and the world reformed around them.
Rhaenyra gasped.
She stood upon the cliffs of Dragonstone. Smoke choked the sky. The air stank of blood and ash. In the distance, two dragons tore into one another — wings shredding, claws ripping, fire colliding in violent bursts of orange and gold. Their roars shook the very stone beneath her feet.
She stumbled back.
"No..."
The scene shifted.
King's Landing burned.
Not the triumphant blaze of conquest, but chaos. Riots. Starving smallfolk screaming in the streets. A smaller dragon, panicked, dragged down by a mob with spears and ropes. A boy, no older than ten, stood crying beside a body.
Her body.
Rhaenyra stopped breathing.
"That is my son," she whispered.
"Yes," Belerion replied.
Another shift. Aegon the Usurper, broken, poisoned, hollow-eyed. The throne room colder. Smaller.
Another shift.
The Dragonpit. The great dome cracked. Smoke rising. Dragon corpses piled like fallen gods. Wings torn. Necks twisted. Eyes dull.
And then—
Silence.
Years later.
The Red Keep stood intact, but quieter. No roars filled the skies. No shadows crossed the sun. No hatchlings stirred in cradle fires.
Just stone. Just absence. The world felt... smaller.
Rhaenyra turned slowly in a circle. There were no dragons.
None.
Her chest tightened painfully. "They are gone," she whispered.
"Yes." Belerion's voice was no longer mocking. It was grave.
"You died seeking vengeance. Your enemies died seeking vengeance. And the world paid the price."
The vision shifted one final time.
Children, Targaryen children, generations after her. Silver-haired. Dragonless.
One little girl stood on a balcony, staring at the sky as if waiting for something that would never come.
Rhaenyra felt something inside her crack. When she had first awoken in the darkness, her only thought had been revenge.
She wanted Aegon to burn.
She wanted him screaming.
She wanted balance restored through blood.
But this, this was not balance.
This was ruin.
She saw now what she had refused to see in life: the war had not been about justice. It had been about pride. About fear. About refusing to bend.
And dragons, innocent, magnificent, divine creatures, had paid for it.
Tears burned her eyes.
"They were children," she whispered, watching the Dragonpit collapse again in the vision. "Some of them were barely grown."
"And yet they burned for your war."
Her shoulders trembled.
"What have we done?"
Belerion stepped beside her, towering and terrible, yet strangely patient.
"Your house forgot what dragons were," he said quietly. "You treated them as weapons to secure a chair of blades." The Iron Throne flickered into view — sharp, cruel, meaningless. Rhaenyra stared at it.
For the first time in her life... It looked small. Revenge suddenly felt childish. Petty. Insignificant.
What was one brother's death compared to the extinction of an entire species? Compared to centuries of silence in the skies? Compared to children who would never know the warmth of a dragon's breath against their hands?
Her anger dissolved into something heavier. Regret.
"What would you have me do?" she asked hoarsely.
The visions dissolved. The abyss returned, only her and the god remained. Belerion studied her carefully, as though weighing her soul.
"I can send you back," he said at last.
Her breath caught.
"Back?"
"To before the war. Before blood was spilled. You would keep your memories. Your knowledge. Your failures."
Hope, sharp and dangerous, pierced through her grief. "I could stop it," she murmured. "I could change everything."
"Perhaps." His eyes gleamed. "But know this, Rhaenyra Targaryen, altering fate is not simple. Every change has consequence. Every life spared may cost another in ways you cannot foresee."
She lifted her chin.
"I do not care for the throne anymore."
"Liar," Belerion said calmly.
The word struck.
She swallowed.
"I care for my children," she corrected. "And for the dragons."
Silence lingered between them.
"Would you sacrifice your claim," he asked softly, "if it meant saving them?"
The question pierced deeper than any accusation. The Iron Throne flickered again in the darkness, tempting, shining. Then the Dragon pit, broken, then her son's terrified face.
Her jaw tightened. "Yes," she whispered.
The word felt like a blade sliding from her own flesh. Belerion watched her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Very well."
The abyss began to tremble.
"Return, Rhaenyra Targaryen," the God of Death commanded. "Remember what you have seen."
Light burst around her once more.
"And this time," Belerion's voice echoed as everything dissolved into fire and brilliance, "choose differently."