Chapter 4
Chapter 4: The Prisoner and the Dragon
Sansa
The walls of her chamber felt closer than before, the air thick with the lingering scent of sandalwood and jasmine.
She could still hear the distant hum of the Pharaoh’s court, the soft plucking of harps, the murmur of laughter, the clinking of golden goblets.
But she had been dismissed.
Like a guest, not a prisoner.
Like a curiosity, not a threat.
Sansa paced near the open balcony, her hands tight fists at her sides.
Daenerys Targaryen was playing a game.
And Sansa had no idea how to win.
She had spent years studying the past, uncovering the bones of queens long forgotten. But she had never expected to become one—to step into a war she did not understand, to take the place of a ruler she had never met.
And Daenerys knew it.
She could see it in her violet eyes, in the way she spoke, in the way she watched her, as if she were a puzzle meant to be solved.
Sansa pressed a hand against the cool stone railing, staring out at the city below.
Waset.
It was nothing like the ruins she had once excavated—it was alive. The streets were still lit by torches, the scent of fresh bread and incense still drifting through the warm night air. The great temples stood tall, untouched by time, their gold-capped obelisks gleaming under the light of the moon.
And beyond them, in the distance—the dragon.
Sansa swallowed hard.
She had heard the roar when she first arrived, felt the tremor in the earth when it landed upon the temple walls.
Drogon.
He was real. All of this was real.
A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.
Missandei entered, her steps graceful, measured, as if she carried the weight of a thousand secrets.
“You should rest,” she said gently.
Sansa turned to face her. “Is that a suggestion or an order?”
Missandei’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite amusement. “Whichever will make you obey.”
Sansa let out a slow breath, her gaze searching the woman before her.
“You are her most trusted advisor, aren’t you?”
Missandei tilted her head. “I am her friend.”
“And does she listen to her friends?”
“She listens to those who prove themselves worthy of her trust.”
Sansa let her words settle, considering.
“I am not her enemy,” she said at last.
“No,” Missandei agreed. “But you are not yet her ally, either.”
Sansa turned back toward the balcony, staring out at the city once more.
Then what am I?
She did not say it aloud.
But she felt it, deep in her bones, as the wind carried the distant echo of a dragon’s roar through the night.
Daenerys
“You should kill her.”
Grey Worm’s voice was calm, as if he were stating a fact, not a warning.
Daenerys did not look at him. Instead, she stood by the open-air terrace, gazing down at her kingdom—her conquest, her future.
The city had not yet settled. Whispers still carried through the streets.
The Queen of Waset was dead.
No, she lives.
She has surrendered.
No, she has been taken.
The truth was a weapon, and Daenerys was still deciding how best to wield it.
“I will not kill her,” she said at last.
Grey Worm’s expression did not change, but his jaw tightened.
“She is dangerous.”
“She is lost,” Daenerys corrected. “And that is far more useful.”
A moment of silence.
Then—the beating of wings.
Drogon landed atop the great temple, his black scales gleaming under the moonlight, his golden eyes flickering like dying embers.
Daenerys felt the heat of him even from here, the silent power in his presence.
Her dragon did not trust easily.
But when Sansa had walked onto the palace balcony earlier that night, Drogon had watched her.
Not with hunger.
Not with malice.
With curiosity.
And Daenerys had learned long ago that her dragon’s instincts were never wrong.
She turned back to Grey Worm. “Keep watching her. If she becomes a threat, I will end her myself.”
“And if she does not?”
Daenerys exhaled, her gaze drifting once more toward the city, toward the queen who was not a queen at all.
“Then I will find out why she is here.”
And what she was meant to be.
Sansa
Sleep did not come.
She lay beneath silken sheets, the scent of lotus and amberwood filling the air, but her mind would not still.
Not in this palace of secrets.
Not when she could still feel Daenerys’ gaze on her skin.
She turned onto her side, staring out at the open balcony, at the stars beyond.
What was she supposed to do?
If she told the truth, would Daenerys believe her? Would anyone?
Would she ever find a way back?
Or was she meant to stay?
To take the place of the queen who had vanished?
The thought sent a shiver down her spine.
But even as she closed her eyes, she knew the answer.
The past had swallowed her whole.
And Daenerys Targaryen was not done with her yet.
Sansa
The air inside the chamber was warm, but not stifling. The scent of burning oils and fresh linen mixed with something earthier, something older—like stone kissed by time, like secrets buried beneath the sand.
Sansa lay still, watching the shadows flicker along the ceiling.
She knew she should rest. Her body ached for it, her mind screamed for it.
And yet, sleep would not come.
There were too many questions, too many unknowns pressing in around her.
Had she truly been reincarnated into this ancient world? Or was this some twisted illusion?
And Daenerys…
Sansa turned onto her side, exhaling sharply.
The woman was a force—cold and burning all at once, her every word a test, her every glance a calculated move.
A conqueror. A ruler.
A dragon.
And yet, there was something else beneath all that fire and steel.
Something undecided.
Something dangerous.
A soft breeze drifted through the open balcony, and Sansa closed her eyes, trying to calm the storm inside her.
Then—a sound.
Low, guttural, just beyond the terrace.
Sansa froze.
The hair at the back of her neck stood on end, her pulse hammering in her throat.
She had heard this before.
A growl. A breath. A presence too vast to be anything but monstrous.
Drogon.
Slowly, she sat up, the sheets pooling around her waist.
The palace was quiet. The guards stood at their posts beyond the chamber doors, unaware.
But the dragon was waiting.
Drawn forward by something she did not understand, Sansa rose, stepping barefoot across the cool marble floor.
She stopped at the balcony’s edge, gripping the carved stone railing.
And there he was.
A beast of legend. A nightmare given form.
He was massive—larger than she had imagined, his scales the color of obsidian, his eyes molten gold, glowing in the darkness like embers beneath a dying fire.
His head was lowered, his breath slow, deliberate.
Watching her.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then—he exhaled, a hot, smoky gust of air that sent her hair whipping around her face.
Sansa’s breath caught in her throat.
She should run. She should scream.
But she did neither.
Instead, she slowly lifted a hand—a foolish, reckless act—reaching toward him.
Drogon’s golden eyes flickered, his pupils narrowing.
For a heartbeat, she thought he would strike.
But he did not.
Instead, he leaned closer, his massive head lowering until he was just inches away from her outstretched palm.
The heat of him was overwhelming, his breath hot against her skin.
A test.
A challenge.
Her fingers trembled—but she did not pull away.
And then, softly, impossibly, her hand met scales.
Daenerys
She had felt it before she had seen it.
A shift.
A pull.
Something ancient and wordless, something wrong—or perhaps, something that should have never been right.
Drogon.
Daenerys had risen from her bed the moment she sensed his absence, her own heartbeat quickening.
He never left without her command. Never.
And yet, he had gone.
Now, as she strode toward the open terrace, her silk robe trailing behind her, her breath hitched at the sight before her.
Sansa.
Standing at the edge of the balcony, her fingers brushing Drogon’s scales, her red hair whipping in the wind.
The beast—her beast—was not snarling.
He was not baring his teeth.
He was allowing her touch.
A flash of something deep and dangerous coiled in Daenerys’ chest.
This should not be possible.
Drogon did not tolerate strangers. He did not accept anyone but her.
And yet…
Sansa turned, her blue eyes locking with Daenerys’.
She did not speak.
She did not flinch.
And in that moment, Daenerys was certain of one thing.
This woman—whoever she truly was—was bound to her fate in ways she did not yet understand.
And perhaps, neither did the gods.