Chapter 5
Chapter 5: Fire and Fate
Daenerys
Sansa Stark had touched her dragon.
And Drogon had let her.
Daenerys could not reconcile the sight before her with the world she knew. The world she had built.
Drogon did not yield.
He did not bow.
And yet, here he was—his great head lowered, his breath stirring the night air between him and a woman who should have feared him.
A woman who should have burned.
Sansa had not noticed her yet. Or perhaps, she had chosen not to acknowledge her.
Either way, it did not matter.
Because Daenerys would not be ignored.
She stepped forward, her silk robe whispering against the marble, her voice a quiet command in the night.
“He could have killed you.”
Sansa did not flinch.
She did not look afraid.
Instead, she turned, her red hair catching in the moonlight, her gaze sharp as a blade.
“But he didn’t.”
Daenerys stilled, her fingers twitching at her sides.
No. He hadn’t.
And that was the problem.
Slowly, she descended the steps leading to the terrace, her eyes never leaving Sansa’s.
“Do you know why?” she asked.
Sansa exhaled, turning back to Drogon, her fingers still hovering over his scales, but not quite touching anymore.
“No,” she admitted. “Do you?”
Daenerys clenched her jaw.
No.
Not yet.
But she would.
She stopped just a few feet away, arms crossed, the wind lifting the loose strands of silver hair from her face.
“You do not belong to this world,” she said, her voice low. Measured. Dangerous.
Sansa’s lips pressed together.
“And yet, I am here.”
Daenerys studied her, trying to unravel her, trying to understand.
Who was she?
A queen displaced in time? A scholar lost to the sands? A remnant of something older?
Something… meant to be?
Drogon let out a slow, rumbling breath.
He had not moved away from Sansa.
And that was answer enough.
Daenerys exhaled sharply, shaking her head.
“Go inside,” she ordered.
Sansa blinked. “Excuse me?”
Daenerys’ jaw tightened. “You heard me.”
Sansa turned fully toward her, her expression unreadable.
“You don’t command me,” she said.
The words hung between them, a challenge neither had expected.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Daenerys stepped closer, lowering her voice to something quieter, sharper, heavier.
“I conquered this city. I took your throne. I command everything around you. Do not mistake my patience for weakness, Sansa Stark.”
Sansa did not yield.
If anything, her chin lifted, her blue eyes burning with something that felt too much like defiance.
“And yet,” she murmured, “you haven’t conquered me.”
Something inside Daenerys stirred, deep and restless, a fire she could not name.
No. She hadn’t.
And that was dangerous.
For both of them.
Sansa lingered for a moment longer, her gaze searching Daenerys’ face—for what, Daenerys did not know.
Then, without another word, she turned and stepped back into the chamber, her red hair vanishing into the shadows.
Daenerys released a breath she had not realized she was holding.
Drogon huffed, watching her with something that felt too much like understanding.
Daenerys reached out, pressing a hand against his warm scales.
“Not a word,” she muttered.
Drogon rumbled—a sound almost like laughter.
Sansa
Her hands were shaking.
She had not let Daenerys see.
But now, alone in her chamber, with the city of Waset sleeping beyond the palace walls, she could feel it.
She pressed her palms against the cool stone of the vanity, her breath uneven.
She had touched a dragon.
She had stood before Daenerys Targaryen and did not yield.
What was happening to her?
Was this truly her fate?
Had she been reborn to rule? To fight? To fall?
Or had she been sent here for something else?
Her reflection stared back at her—a queen’s face, a scholar’s mind, a prisoner’s fate.
She did not know what she was meant to be.
But she knew one thing.
She would not break.
She would not bow.
And no matter how much Daenerys Targaryen tried to conquer her—she would not belong to her.
At least…
That was what she told herself.
Sansa
She did not sleep.
Not because of fear.
Not because of uncertainty.
But because her mind would not be still.
She sat near the open balcony, wrapped in silk sheets, her eyes fixed on the city below. Waset.
The past, made real.
She should have been overwhelmed—and she was, in ways she could not yet admit—but more than that, she was curious.
She had spent her life uncovering the past. And now, it had swallowed her whole.
And then there was Daenerys.
Sansa exhaled sharply, fingers curling around the fabric at her knees.
The woman was infuriating. Unrelenting. Terrifying.
And yet…
Something about her demanded understanding.
Not just a queen. Not just a conqueror.
Something older.
Something that called to Sansa in ways she did not understand.
She reached for the pitcher of water beside her, pouring herself a cup. The coolness grounded her, and for a moment, she let her thoughts settle.
Why had Drogon let her touch him?
Why had Daenerys looked at her as if she were a question without an answer?
And more importantly—what was Sansa supposed to do next?
She had no allies. No army. No knowledge of what had led to this war between queens.
All she had was herself.
And perhaps, for now, that would have to be enough.
A soft knock at the chamber doors pulled her from her thoughts.
Sansa hesitated.
It was the middle of the night.
Who would—?
The doors opened before she could answer.
And there, standing in the moonlight, was Daenerys.
She was dressed in a deep blue robe, the fabric embroidered with golden thread, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves.
She looked untouched by sleep.
Unshaken.
And yet, something in her expression was not entirely unreadable.
Something was… unsettled.
Sansa straightened, setting her cup aside. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Daenerys did not smile.
Instead, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
“No,” she said simply.
Sansa arched a brow, watching as the Queen of Fire and Blood moved toward the balcony, her gaze sweeping over the city below.
“You were not always a queen,” Daenerys murmured after a long pause.
Sansa stilled.
A statement, not a question.
She had not told her the truth of who she was.
And yet, Daenerys knew.
Sansa swallowed, choosing her words carefully. “Neither were you.”
Daenerys turned, her violet eyes catching the moonlight.
A beat of silence.
Then—a quiet, amused exhale.
“No,” Daenerys admitted. “I was not.”
Sansa’s heart beat harder against her ribs.
This was something new.
Not a battle. Not a demand.
A moment of truth, given freely.
And yet, the weight of power still hung between them.
Daenerys took another step forward. Closer.
“You are not the woman I expected,” she murmured.
Sansa lifted her chin. “And what did you expect?”
Daenerys tilted her head, considering. “Someone afraid. Someone desperate to bend the knee.”
Sansa’s lips curled—just slightly. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
Daenerys watched her, quiet.
Then—a ghost of a smirk.
“I often am,” she murmured.
Something in Sansa’s stomach twisted.
This was dangerous.
The way Daenerys looked at her. The way the tension between them shifted, no longer sharp-edged, but something deeper.
Something darker.
Daenerys turned back toward the city, her expression unreadable.
“You are trapped in a world that does not belong to you,” she said softly. “But the gods do not make mistakes.”
Sansa frowned.
“What are you saying?”
Daenerys hesitated.
And that alone was enough to make Sansa’s pulse quicken.
Then, at last—
“I do not believe you were sent here by accident.”
Sansa’s breath caught.
She had felt it, deep in her bones—the sense that this was more than just fate.
And now, Daenerys was confirming it.
“You don’t even know who I really am,” Sansa said carefully.
Daenerys turned to face her fully.
“No,” she admitted. “But neither do you.”
The words hit Sansa harder than she expected.
Because deep down, she knew Daenerys was right.
She had spent her whole life searching for the past.
And now, the past had found her.
A new silence stretched between them, heavy with something neither of them were ready to name.
Then—Daenerys took another step closer.
“If you are not my enemy,” she said softly, “then prove it.”
Sansa’s breath hitched.
“And if I don’t?” she whispered.
Daenerys tilted her head.
“Then I will have to decide what to do with you.”
The words should have been a threat.
But they weren’t.
Not exactly.
Because beneath them, buried deep beneath the fire and the steel and the conquest—
There was a question.
An invitation.
Sansa swallowed hard, her mind racing.
And in that moment, she knew—
This was only the beginning.